


Snow Angels and Bridges

by Trimitive



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Connor and Nines are siblings, Connor has "android" tendencies, Connor is human, Depressed Hank Anderson, Depression, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gavin Reed - Freeform, Hank Anderson - Freeform, Hank Being Awesome, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, No Beta, Possible smut, Protective Hank Anderson, RK900 - Freeform, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, writing this to help myself its stupid and raw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2019-07-24 08:39:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16171538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trimitive/pseuds/Trimitive
Summary: Hank spots a young man with some rather abnormal behavior one night while on break.He says his name is Connor, and that he's fine despite being completely underdressed for the cold, winter weather and dancing along the streets like he was coming off ecstasy.It isn't until a few hours later when he spots Connor dangling himself over the edge of a bridge amidst the snow storm does he realize that Connor's behavior was a cause for concern....And it isn't until he brings him home that he realizes Connor's mind is a complex and darkened labyrinth of what being alive means. Maybe Connor's no angel, but Hank can't help but feel the young musician fell into his life for a reason.





	1. Miss and Step

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with themes of suicide and self-destruction. You've been warned.

_"Take me back to the ocean_  
_drag me under the dancing blue_  
_fill my lungs with the taste of salt_  
_the smells of freezing life and death and mineral hands."_

 

He tried to be someone worth caring for. He tried to make something of himself, and he tried to find reasons to not see the day-to-day as something critical and cruel. Yet as Albert Camus once said, "There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide." 

As he toured down the brisk sidewalk, he couldn't help but notice the many faces of the people he passed by. Even those whose faces were covered in scarves or warmers has vulnerably exposed eyes that told stories of focus, pain, joy, or even momentary and fleeting scopes of emotion. Connor was, in every sense of the word, the opposite. He not only felt empty, but he looked empty. If these people noticed him in the same way he was noticing them, he probably looked something like a cyborg or even an android; just mimicking the routines of life not actually living.

Regardless, some people did notice him, but not because he was somewhat mechanical in his presence. No, it was only because he wasn't dressed appropriately for the weather. While the people around him were sporting puffy coats and were bundled, cozy and warm with mittens and winter hats to defeat the oncoming creep of winter's blast, Connor was dressed in comparatively nothing. A white dress shirt tucked into some black pants. Sleeves were rolled up. His nose and cheeks were pink... his fingers red and lips chapped. Nobody stopped to ask. This was Detroit after all, nobody gave a fuck. That's why he lived here.

Gentle snow dampened his dark hair and clothes. Old slush from the streets and the new fall of snow kept his dress shoes shiny and socks sopping wet. He didn't even feel enough to possibly hold his arms to himself, preserving what was left of his own heat as his shoulders shook from an otherwise frigid stinging. He simply walked. Each arm strode with his legs, and he walked. The night settled on the horizon, and he walked. The temperature dropped into something bitter and bleak, and he walked. The cold began to stick his nostrils together and hurt the skin on his face, and he... smiled.

Connor stopped mid-step, staring up at the quiet, snowy sky under a lamplight as the snow flakes bunched and kissed his cheeks. The sky was all but pumpkin orange in hue as the lights from the city bounced off the somber clouds above, filling the heavens with fire. The laughter bubbled out of nowhere, as if it was waiting so long to come up to the surface but kept dying on the edge of his lips before it could burn and boil over.

Of course, an underdressed man obviously suffering from cold and laughing up at the sky for seemingly no good reason attracted some attention.

Hank Anderson, a rough and burly man in his 50s, noticed this odd behavior pretty immediately amidst enjoying his dinner at a small table outside of a small food shack decorated with a bright, neon sign that read "Chicken Feed." He only stared for a while at first, watching idly as Connor stretched his arms out to each side and gave a twirl on his wet heels. The rubicund chafing of cold skin on his arms caused Hank to cringe a bit in sympathy. It couldn't have felt good, and yet this young man was dancing in the freezing street, illuminated by that singular lamppost light like he was a center stage ballerina coming down from a drug induced bliss.

Well, that thought alone was enough for Hank to have to do his job.

With a gruff grumble, Hank rose from his seat and carefully approached the seemingly manic young man. "Hey, kid...," he called out gently.

Connor stopped with a sway, side-eyeing Hank and smiling as his arms swayed back to his sides with a languid fluidness. "Yes? Can I help you?"

"You doin' ok?" Hank asked cautiously, raising an eyebrow and scratching his beard. "You must be cold."

"Oh," Connor paused, staring down at his somewhat saturates clothes and shrugging the concern off before returning his gaze to the officer's. "No, I'm fine. Just taking a walk."

Hank would have had to be an idiot to deduce how much hogwash that was. "What's your name?"

"Connor," he saluted with a stiff hand. "Connor CyBlif."

"Huh." Hank ran his tongue over his teeth in thought, trying to figure out what he should do. He certainly hadn't expected this kid to give him his full name.The young man clearly wasn't all there. The behavior was just too abnormal. "Do you maybe want to have a bite to eat with me? Warm yourself up a bit? My treat."

Hank's heart stopped for a moment, because the expression that passed fleetingly over Connor's face suddenly was something so complex and painful that Hank could never begin to place a single emotion on it. It was a smile, but Connor's brown eyes struck Hank with such an intense sense of despair that Hank wanted to drop to his knees right then and there and anchor himself to Connor's hand, begging him not to walk any further. For a minute, Hank thought he had stared into the eyes of something chaotic and evanescent. Before he could even register it fully, Connor's face was smiling again. Like something human, but not someone. It was too thoughtful and too sad a smile to belong to anyone.

"No thank you. That food really isn't good for you. You should consider eating healthier options."

Old, blue eyes followed the whimsical man as he continued on down the road in a sudden silence, like a ghost. Did the interaction even really happen? It somehow seemed so surreal, yet Hank's eyes continued to watch the man walk away and he knew that he was no phantom. It made Hank's chest feel heavy, but he returned to his food quietly and complacently. Maybe the kid was just high and was coming down from it. Lord knew he had seen plenty of those. Who was he to judge anyway? He was a self-destructive alcoholic with a martyr complex. Connor'd probably be fine.

  
At least that's what Hank had convinced himself while he ate, and when he clocked out for the night, and during his long and treacherous drive home. The streets were freezing over and disappearing in the snowy throng and he had to drive slow to ensure his wheels didn't slip and spin on black ice. The radio choppily played old rock music from the early 2000s and Hank hunched forward, squinting to see through the increasing onset of blizzard. Back ways home were always a bit better for this kind of bullshit. You didn't have to worry about idiot drivers in chaotic winter traffic. The downside was that the light was limited to near-sight and the darkness crept on his car faster than he could drive through it. Finally he caved and pulled the car over before daring to pass the old, iron bridge that stood between him and his neighborhood. He waited with a heated sigh, cranking the heat up a bit higher and pulling a cigarette from his coat pocket. He knew this shit would pass, it wasn't expected to go on until morning anyway. He had been born and raised in New England, so this so-called "blizzard" was nothing more than the weather spitting out a bit of a temper tantrum. Either way, it unfortunately gave Hank's mind time to wander.

He thought about the last time he got stuck in a storm like this. He didn't want to necessarily think about it, but he did anyway. That's how brains worked; intrusive and self-defeating. He envisioned his son's pale and broken hands flattened into the wet, red snow under the weight of icy metal, sirens blaring in the distance as they came to aid those involved in the accident. Hank hadn't wanted help. He could see Cole's wide eyes, bloody and misty, and his small body crushed under the collapsed weight of the down-turned vehicle. < /p>

Hank had wanted to die right then and there alongside his boy, but he didn't. He was spared. For what reason he couldn't fathom.... Since Cole's death, he hadn't exactly done anything worth noting with his life. In fact, before Cole was born Hank was a bit of a washed up nobody. Yet Cole was the one who was taken that night.... Hank took another drag of his cigarette and tried to sidetrack his thoughts onto something else.

Hank thought about the young man from earlier in the night. Connor, was it? Maybe Connor was just a ghost. Maybe Connor was some unhealthy spirit of a heavy winter's night reminding Hank that he let his boy down. Maybe his whimsical dancing and chilled skin were somehow symbolic of Hank's survival guilt and that he had outlived his child due to the recklessness of winter's breath. Connor's eyes could have been the epitome of sadness staring the older man down, and he couldn't understand why he didn't just follow Connor as the young man walked away... disappearing into the dark and snow like some angel, pale and weightless and gone....

That's when Hank saw it. A creep of imagery through the howling winds of white. That same, listless figure teetering gently on the railing of the old, rusty, iron bridge.

Connor was going to jump.

Hank spit his cigarette out and threw himself from his car, practically tumbling forward through the snow as he rushed across the bridge. "Wait!" He shouted through the howling wind, arms outstretched almost close enough to grab the drifting creature but stopped as Connor's distant, brown eyes met his. They were intense and dark, so much different than when they met before. One arm braced his balance on a support beam, but one foot threateningly lingered over the edge suggesting he'd take that fateful step forward if Hank took another of his own. Despite the wailing of the storm, there was a sudden and ringing silence. It was deafening, and once Hank caught his breath all he could manage was a choked "Don't do it. Please."

"Why?" Connor asked bluntly. It was quiet, but Hank could hear him. Hank could hear Connor's heart beat if he tried hard enough in that moment.

Hank blanched. He... he didn't know. As he observed Connor more through the dark, illuminated by the faint glow of Hank's headlights at the end of the bridge, he could see the damage of frostbite and hypothermia on Connor's skin. This was dangerous. "I-..., I don't know, I just know it's not worth it."

Connor chuckled and turned his sights forward and down at the crashing river below. "You're not wrong."

"What?"

"I said you're not wrong," Connor barely raised his voice. It was weak and hoarse. "I don't have any real good reason to do this."

Hank was so confused, but his mind was jumbled and he had no room to question Connor's motives to closely. "Did something happen?" Connor didn't answer. "Please let me help, Connor."

It was quiet again. Hank was about to dive forward, snatching Connor from the railing in one risky motion, but Connor finally found his words and answered with a chilled, "No, nothing at all happened. I'm just like this sometimes."

  
Just like this sometimes? Hank's brain was spinning. "What do you mean?"

The bridge moaned, and Connor swayed a bit as a strong wind momentarily cradled the old iron. "Sometimes I feel like I'm floating away, and I'm floating so high and far away from everyone and everything that I'd do just about anything to wake up."

Hank was no professional, but obviously that wasn't how people were supposed to feel or to think. "Is this how you think you'll wake up? Killing yourself?"

"What about you?" Connor suddenly asked, turning his frigid gaze back over his shoulder to meet Hank's. "What keeps you from jumping?"

Hank's heart sank. It was uncanny.... Connor's intuitiveness was nothing but eerie. He couldn't let the younger man know the truth behind the many bottles littered on the floor at home. "I don't usually fight to be here, Connor. I just sort of am. I wake up, eat, go to work-"

"-Talk to people, socialize, finish work, go home, do something recreational, eat, wash, go to bed, rinse and repeat, right?" Connor finished for Hank, a darkness minced in his words. "That sure sounds like what being alive is. People seem to like it well enough."

Hank was dumbstruck. How was he possibly going to help this young man? How was he supposed to do anything? As he stared at Connor's back, his sillhouette casually lit as the freezing man stared out over the river's rumbling grip, he didn't at all feel like he was staring at suicidal individual. He felt like he was staring at the precipice of someone... something... bigger than himself, and he was just waiting for the fall. He didn't want Connor to fall. Connor was too small and light to be up on that railing. He thought of Cole. Cole was too small. Connor was too small. People were too small. "Connor," Hank began, choking up a bit. "Connor, please come down. We can talk, just come down first."

"Why are you crying?" A cold voice.

"Because I really really don't want to have to watch you die. I'm not leaving you here, so it's either you come down or I watch you end everything."

"You don't know me, though. Why does it bother you so much?"

"I'll tell you, but only if you come down first, and tell me what actually put you up on that railing to begin with."

It was quiet again. The sudden silent treatment Connor gave Hank between pleads of desperation was enough for Hank to lose breath. Connor finally answered cooly, "If I do, you have to promise not to take me to the hospital."

"I promise."

"And you have to promise to try to understand somehow."

Hank was getting somewhere, despite not truly understanding the second condition. He felt a panicky warmness fill his gut. "Yes, I promise."

Connor was still for a few moments more. Finally, he began to turn around. He carefully gripped the icy beam, trying to situate himself to safely climb down, but the cruelties of winter snow and an almost frozen body had other plans. Connor's heel lost traction on the railing.

The scream of the fall shook the air. It bounced off the metal of the bridge. If Hank didn't know better, it was that scream alone that dislocated his shoulder as he held Connor's hand who dangled cold and helplessly over the bridge. The freezing river rushed below, and Connor's purpling lips and eyes were enough of an indication that Hank would be alone in this effort to pull Connor back over. He tried. Connor's hands were almost colder than the iron that stood between Hank and both of their horrible deaths. He would get Connor up a small ways before the strength in his arms left him.

Connor shook his head. "Let go."

"No! I'm not going to do that!" Hank shouted, gritting his teeth and trying again. Connor was dead weighting on him. Motherfucker.

"It's not worth both of us, please...."

"Connor!" Hank barked, causing Connor to startle and look back up into those wracked, blue eyes, full of so much... life. They were full of so much emotion, and fear, and concern and... "I watched my son get crushed under my car in a storm just like this. I'm not going to watch you die tonight! Some other night you want to try, fine, but you gotta survive tonight! Do you fucking understand me?!"

A heat rushed through Connor. As Hank pulled once more time, Connor mustered his strength and pulled as well. He hoisted his leg, and once he was able to connect it to the bridge's edge he used what was left in him to help Hank pull him back over the railing. They fell backwards into the snow, collapsing into a pile of pants and coughing from the brittle, dry air. Hank patted Connor's back as the numbed man lay on top of him, absorbing what was left of Hank's body heat.  
Hank was bold enough to let out an exhausted laugh. He... He did it. He saved Connor. "We need to get you warm as quickly as possible if I ain't taking you to the hospital...."   


	2. You jump, I jump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chit-chatting about once's suicidal process isn't fun, so Hank is going to try to warm that man up and try to make fiends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: -listens to moody music for hours- Wow I'm really bummed out time to write oh boy oh boy
> 
> Btw, if ya'll suffer from bullshit, feel free to reach out to me. Keep in mind I'm very solution oriented, so I'm less the kind of person to just nod and listen and more the kind of person that's like "did you try this thing?" I'm very unsympathetic of other people's bullshit, but I am EXCEEDINGLY empathetic and I will treat your bullshit like it's the finest, shiniest shit in the world. 
> 
> 2\. AGAIN this fic covers a lot of suicide talk. I don't want to trigger anyone or push'em over the edge so pllllleeeeeeaaaassssseeee don't read if it'll fuck you up. Unless you're like me where suicide talk and scenes actually make you feel better.

_"Take me back to the ocean_  
_where my life hangs on cliff sides_  
_where my life lost moves with the waves_  
_and the white ocean foam ripples vibrancy"_  
  
  
  
Hank places a steaming mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table in front of Connor, who sat bundled and shivering under a large, heavy fleece blanket and a happy, two hundred pound St. Bernard. Connor was nothing more than a teeth chattering little face amidst a nest of warm fluff, so his expression was understandably confused when Hank set the mug down in a place where his hands couldn't reasonably reach. Yet Hank was exhausted, and didn't seem to note how impossible it would be for Connor to drink said beverage. Rather, Hank sat kitty corner to Connor on the sectional sofa and tried to gather his thoughts now that both parties were settled and warming up.  
  
How did you start a conversation like this though? 'Hey there, so why do you want to die?' It wasn't exactly a casual topic between strangers, let alone with someone who could easily be pushed back over the edge (metaphorically and literally). Finally Hank gave in and chose the "officer" dialogue to be the best course of action. "Is there anyone I should contact? Parents? Roommates?"  
  
Connor shook his head (as much as he could) and chattered a shivering "No." Hank grunted, nodding lightly, trying to think of how to push the conversation forward again before Connor continued, "I l-l-live alone-e-e."   
  
"Did anyone know or have any idea about what you were going to go do?"  
  
"No," Connor answered again.   
  
Well that at least settled the issue of any panicking third parties. It was almost one in the morning, surely someone would have been wondering what Connor was doing out so late on a Tuesday night. Not exactly a night of the week for clubbing, terrible weather or not. "Are you warming up at all? You look a little less blue." Connor nodded and Hank smiled. "You still might need to go to the hospital about your hands and toes. Don't have to mention the whole suicidal thing if you don't want to." Although Hank would recommend it. Now was not to the time to push any boundaries.   
  
But Connor did look pretty bad. Now that he was warming up, the damage from the cold was becoming very apparent on the skin of his face alone. His cheeks were chapped and the skin was red and small pieces were foiling forward like thin, tender birch bark. He definitely suffered frost bite, but it didn't look too severe in the very least. However once the kid was well and warm, he'd be wanting some pain killers to subdue the awful burn that was too much cold. Luckily Hank had plenty in his home..., which brought his mind to the next thought; Connor was in his home. How long was he supposed to keep Connor there?  
  
Hank supposed he didn't want Connor going out anytime soon, but he would need to figure out how to get Connor home and he certainly didn't want him leaving if he was still behaving suicidal. Then again he couldn't keep Connor there against his will either, this wasn't a kidnapping. Honesty was the best policy. "Do you think you could stay here tonight, just so I know that you're not going to die on the sidewalk from hypothermia?"   
  
Connor was thoughtful. It wasn't like he had an urgent places to be at 1am. He nodded.   
  
"Good. Thank you," Hank sighed in relief. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the couch, side-eyeing Connor here and there. This was very awkward. "So... do you... y'know...," he began sheepishly, "want to like... talk about it or anything?"  
  
"N-Not really," was Connor's rather blunt reply, which dashed Hank's hopes of learning anything about the situation. It was only a few mere moments before they were re-kindled. "Do you want to?"  
  
Hank felt embarrassed having something so personal in Connor's life being pandered to by an outsider. He shook his head no, but paused and nodded lightly, trying to figure out his own thoughts. "I want to, yeah, but I don't really want to pry."  
  
"I did promise to tell you," Connor shakily muttered.  
  
Hank's eyes widened and he chuckled warmly. "Look, I was talking in the heat of the moment. You're not obligated to tell me anything."  
  
"I wasn't though." Connor's eyes, intense as they were back on the bridge, somehow now seemed bright and vibrant. Despite the fierce and tenuous person Hank had talked down from death, Connor almost seemed... naive, for lack of a better word. Perhaps child-esque was a better description. Regardless, it was nothing at all like before. Connor's seemingly sudden and complicated shifts between emotions and character was a little disorienting to Hank.  
  
_Disorienting and fascinating._  
  
"Yeah? S'that supposed to mean?"  
  
"It means you also promised to tell me why you were upset, which y-you did. Dead son, right?"  
  
Hank's throat fell into his stomach. Well that was certainly tactless. Fucker. "Yeah." Hank answered flatly, his face hardening a bit.  
  
"You also promised to try to understand."  
  
For some reason, Hank was becoming both annoyed and intrigued. "I can't understand much if you don't want to talk about it."  
  
Connor smiled. "To get that from you, I shouldn't have to."  
  
Ok, annoyed was definitely the dominating emotion. "Do you always speak in fucking riddles?"  
  
"Epicurus once said, 'The grater the difficulty, the more glory in surmounting it.' Do you hate it, Officer?"  
  
The fuck was Epicurus? "Lieutenant." Hank answered gruffly, but Connor's smile only widened. The annoyance began to settle back down and Hank ran a tired hand through his hair. "I'm actually a Lieutenant."  
  
"My mistake," Connor chuckled, rousing the St. Bernard a bit. "Okay, so... do you hate it...," Connor blinked coyly, "Lieutenant?"  
  
Hank had finally realized that he had asked for Connor's name before, but hadn't given his own name in return. He was becoming more and more surprised that he managed to convince this kid not to jump off that bridge. "You can call me Hank."  
  
"So many titles. Next you're going to tell me you're a wizard, Harry." This finally made Hank laugh. The large dog perked up which seemed to jostle Connor's talkative side a bit more, which Hank's lowering stress levels greatly appreciated. "This is a really good dog." The St. Bernard's tail whapped once and he turned his head to look at the stranger giving his praise with a happy "boof!" "Yes, yes you. You are a good dog."  
  
"He's a big sap is what he is, but he's definitely helping you get warm."  
  
"I like dogs," Connor smiled, finally moving a still stiff and irritated arm out from under the blanket to scratch the beast's floppy, brown ears. "What's his name?"  
  
Somehow, in some way, Hank's chest got a little tight. "He's uh..., his name is Sumo."  
  
"Hello, Sumo." Connor laughed while Sumo delightfully licked and slobbered over his adoring (albeit chapped and sore) hands.  
  
What was it, Hank thought, that he was feeling? Was it... nostalgia? Relief? It was difficult to put his finger on. Connor behaved as if he had lived in Hank's home his whole life and nothing like he had just tried to end his own life not even two hours ago. "Well, I'm thinking I should get some shut eye. Same goes for you." Hank stood, beckoning Sumo down off Connor with a sharp whistle and a pat of his thigh, which the large hound expertly obeyed.   
  
Connor stared up at Hank stupidly when Hank just stood there staring down at Connor stupidly. Hank raised an eyebrow and coughed awkwardly before he rumbled a graceless, "Well?" gesturing Connor to stand. Connor bumbled himself out of the pile of blankets and stood, still confused what... exactly... he was to be doing. He stared at Hank expectantly and Hank sighed. "Bedroom is down the hall and to the left. After you, Rose."  
  
Connor's face was a systematic jumble of provoked surprise and stubborness. Oh boy.... "One," he began defiantly, "I would never jump off a ship, nor ever expect you to jump in after me just because you happened to once fall into a freezing lake in Wisconsin. And secondly," Connor huffed, his unintimidatingly shivering body in light of attempting to be threatening making Hank chuckle more than his obvious _Titanic_ reference, "I am not going to take over your bed."  
  
"You're not going to. I'm gonna sleep there too."  
  
It was in that moment that both Connor and Hank both had exact opposite thoughts that fell into the exact same vein of that timeless sensation of "no-homo." Connor was warming up quickly, or at least he felt like he was, because he realized how "so-homo" it seemed to suggest Hank was going to just give Connor his bed as if Connor were some chaste, young school girl that needed unadulterated privacy after a White Knight had saved her life earlier that fair winter's eve. Whereas Hank realized how "so-homo" it was to thoughtlessly suggest that he, a complete stranger, share a bed with a young man he had just rescued from near certain death. Truly, he just wanted to make sure that Connor wasn't going to sneak out to try to kill himself again, and he wanted to ensure Connor would continue to warm up. All-in-all, it boiled down to traditional guest etiquette, but their subconscious minds were in full control as 1am breached 1:30am and neither party was brave enough to swallow embarrassment and suggest they just sleep in different rooms. If they did, they'd be admitting that their "no-home" was in fact a "so-so so homo."   
  
What's worse was that it wasn't homophobia holding them by their testosterone, but the 8-hour-long awkwardness that would inevitably follow.  
  
They were _trapped_.   
  
Hank fumbled in his attempt to play it cool as he grumbled something low and irritated under his breath and all but dragged Connor down the hallway with a sudden conversation change of "you remind me of a kid," and "I just want to make sure you're warm, Sumo will join us too," etc etc. If all went well, he would just sound like the rambling middle aged man he was.....  
  
Connor was all but buried once more. He was swaddled in a nest of fleece and wool, and spooned between a lazy and sleep St. Bernard and a burly, graying police Lieutenant. As all members of the slumber party laid quietly in the darkness of the room, trying to fall asleep as quickly as possible, Connor's teeth chattered here and there and he couldn't stifle an abrupt laugh.  
  
"Jesus, Connor.... Go to sleep."  
  
"Hank, this is hysterical."  
  
"There's nothin' hysterical about it. Go to sleep."  
  
"Burritos don't sleep."  
  
"You're not-..," this time Hank did laugh as he patted the caccoon of blankets, "-... you're not a burrito, c'mon. I'm tired. You've gotta be tired."  
  
"Tell me a story."  
  
"Oh my God...."  
  
"Tell me about The Great Depression."  
  
"I'm not that old! You know that!" Hank growled, slapping the bundle of blankets knowing full well it would make absolutely no contact with the body in the middle of them. "Don't call me old."  
  
Connor laughed again. "I'm sorry. I just thought it would be an interesting segway."  
  
Hank made a soft grunt sound. "Segway into what?"  
  
"Into telling you that I don't have depression, but you clearly do. Do you see someone about it?"  
  
"Goodnight, Connor."  
  
"C'mon, Hank. Let's talk about our feelings."  
  
"Good ni-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ght, Connor."  
  
"Hank," Connor started again, but this time Hank didn't humor him with a response of any kind. He kept his eyes closed, one arm wrapped around Connor's blanket bundle like it was a body pillow as he shared his body heat with the colder male. Hank could hear a defeated sigh, and a faint whisper that made him smile. "I feel safe."  
  
Hank shifted to lay the back of his hand on Connor's forehead. It was starting to become normal. He laid it back down on Connor's chest. "Good. You deserve to feel that way."   
  
  
  



	3. Frostbite Can't Pluck Guitar Strings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be longer but... eh. I figured I'd break it into two parts.

_"Take me back to the ocean_  
_where love once known still remains_  
_the memories flooding in and out_  
_in cold, suspended animation"_  
  
  
"Do you play the guitar?"  
  
"Hm?" Hank took a moment's attention from cooking breakfast to glance over his shoulder at whatever Connor was talking about. Guitar? Why would he play-... oh. He laughed, turning his attention back to the frying eggs. "Nah, I only knew one song. I just kind of still have that old thing."  
  
Connor stared passively at the dusty instrument. It was a beautiful, rustic red and brown. The strings were tight, but harbored black smears from oiled hands. It was tall, solid... it looked heavy, but more so in feeling and personality than in mass. Connor made a soft noise and ran his fingers along the metallic softness of the strings which allowed the guitar to emit a velvety hum. "What song?"  
  
Hank pushed the eggs on to a couple of plates and moved the plates to the table. "Ah... that lullaby. You are my something, my something something. Here, come sit and eat," he ushered to Connor as he grabbed some forks and a couple of glasses of water. He didn't have much but it was better than sending Connor out on nothing.  
  
"'You Are My Sunshine," Connor answered, striding over to the table and taking a rather uncomfortable seat. He was still sore with frost bite. His skin was chafed and peeling as if he had been burnt. Nothing seemed worse than his fingers, which was made very clear as he painfully tried to grip the fork so that he could eat the eggs. Hank watched him a bit awkwardly as he chewed his own food, wondering if perhaps he needed to feed the kid himself or make something that he could drink through a straw.... Yet after half a minute or so, Connor figured out how to use his ravished fingers enough to maintain a grip and eat. He chewed just as awkwardly. Hank wasn't sure if it was pride that was preventing Connor from expressing his pain and discomfort, or just pure stubborness. Luckily he didn't have enough time to coax before Connor bluntly asked, "Did you learn it for your son?"  
  
Hank sighed. Connor sparkled mystery and wonder, but completely lacked tact and consideration. "Something like that." Fortunately Connor didn't press the subject further, and so Hank took the opportunity to backtrack the topic. "Do you play an instrument?"  
  
Connor swallowed, already finishing half his plate. "Yes. I can play the guitar."  
  
"No kiddin,'" Hank mused. That explained it. "How long?"  
  
Connor thought. "About twenty-five years."  
  
Twenty-five?  "Wait, hold old even are you?"  
  
"I'm thirty-one."  
  
Hank was a bit dumbstruck. "You're fucking with me. You don't look a day over twenty-three. Twenty-four tops."  
  
Connor feigned a dramatic shyness, dropping his hand theatrically over his forehead. "Why, mister, I'm flattered! Truly!" He laughed.  
  
"Okay okay, cut it," Hank chuckled. "So... what... six years old about? You started playing? You must be pretty good."  
  
"I'm decent," Connor agreed hesitantly. "My brother is better."  
  
Hank decided it was best not to pry into family as he watched Connor shovel down the remainder of the food. If he didn't know better he'd think Connor hadn't eaten a cooked meal in a hundred years, even something as simple and cheap as eggs. Although he was definitely picky the night before when Hank had offered him to eat at The Chicken Feed. Connor had subtly insulted him and everything. Maybe that was suicidal Connor talking at the time... not the Connor that was sitting across from him right now. This Connor seemed happy and hopeful. Hank wasn't sure what to make of it. Was it safe to even open that conversation back up? He supposed it was inevitable.   
  
"So," Hank began crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, "where am I taking you?"  
  
"I can walk, but if you continue to insist, the park is just fine."   
  
"Can't I just take you to where you live?"  
  
"The park is fine," Connor repeated firmly.  
  
"And I don't suppose I can convince you to get yourself checked out at the hospital."  
  
"No, not at all. Although I appreciate your thoughtfulness, and I can't begin to express my gratitude at your overwhelming hospitality." Connor sat politely, hands folded on his lap as he stared Hank down in silence. Their motivations were definitely in sharp contrast; Hank's desire to help people and Connor's desire to be a big, fucking, edgy mystery....  Connor let out a long sigh. He knew he was being difficult. "Look, if there's anything I can do to make it up to you, you need but just to ask."  
  
Hank raised an eyebrow. "Anything?"  
  
"Anything at all."  
  
"Let me take you to the hospital to get your-..."  
  
"Anything but that."  
  
They were at an impasse.   
  
"Hank," Connor started, those deep, sad brown eyes clawing and latching onto Hank's heartstrings. Hank couldn't do anything but listen, although he sat stern. "I'm serious. I do appreciate everything you've done. You allowed me to bathe, kept me warm, fed me, and almost literally gave me the clothes off your own back," he mentioned gesturing to his current outfit; some overside sweatpants and an ugly, wool sweater that served its purpose. "A lesser man would have called an ambulance despite promising not to-... no, that's not fair. That would have been the right thing to do. What you chose to do was, in every predictable respect, totally inappropriate." Connor held his hands up to stop Hank from retorting before he finished vocalizing his thoughts. "You didn't see me as some random man inconveniencing your night with their problems and rash decisions. You took me, as a person, into consideration."   
  
They stared at each other across the table. Hank was still stern, but he was softening. He didn't know how to respond. Connor simply smiled and laughed. "I'm sorry, but you are clearly a good man who sees people as the raw, stupid creatures they are. You saw me. You _saw_ me. So you have to see that even though you want so badly to gaurentee I'm safe and well by dumping me at a hospital like a normal person would and should, there has to be some part of you who understands that the hospital isn't going to help me in the way I need it to."  
  
It was true. Deep down, Hank did know that. He felt it deep in his gut that taking Connor to the hospital would somehow debilitate him more, even though it was the only socially acceptable and most ethical thing for Hank to do after preventing a man from committing suicide. Well... then again...  
  
It's not like Hank ever took himself to the hospital either.  
  
"Okay," Hank lamented as he rose to his feet, collecting Connor's and his morning dishes and placing them into the sink to be washed later. He ran a hand through his course hair and grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter. "So, the park, right? Which one?"  
  
Connor smiled and rose to his feet as well. "The one that's just across the bridge. That should be fine."  
  
Hank side-eyed Connor skeptically as he strolled to the coat rack and dragged on his old, worn jacket before proceeding to rip a pull a few odd and end articles of winter clothing buried underneath a few micelleneous coats, and tossing them at Connor. "Bundle up, I'm not sending you out there in just sweatpants and a sweater."  
  
"Oh, no, this is too much, I-"  
  
"It's not up for debate. I've compromised enough for one lifetime," Hank grumbled opening the front door the frigid but otherwise sunny, winter day. "I'm gonna warm up the car. Meet me out there when you're dressed for cold. I'm not interested in seeing you suffering from hypothermia ever again."   
  
Hank shut the door behind him, leaving Connor standing there in stunned confusion. Well. Connor looked down at the pile of warm clothes now in his possession. A thick, hand-knitted scarf that flaunted a spectrum of  earthy hues. Some dark, gray gloves. A black, winter hat with a black pom pom on the head. A large, black, peacoat jacket that appeared to be made for _women_... not men. Connor couldn't help but feel like these clothes weren't exactly here for Hank to wear. Maybe Hank had a girlfriend? Someone abroad who visited now and then? No, then it wouldn't make sense for Hank to give Connor these clothes rather than simply lend them. Then again, it would be kind of weird to lend winter clothes to a suicidal stranger and ask for them back if you weren't planning on seeing them again.  
  
But... a woman....  
  
Connor gingerly lifted the scarf to his face. He inhaled, smelling hints of hydrangea perfume..., but overall these were a distinct musk that belonged to Hank. After sleeping in Hank's bed and blankets, the scent was nothing difficult to place. Hm....   
  
Maybe Hank was a _serial killer_. Maybe he hoarded the clothes of his victims like a trophy.  
  
That would be much more fun to think about than Hank having a casual, female lover....   
  
Connor decided not to keep Hank waiting any longer. He quickly put on the heavy layers. It was, indeed, a very fashionable outfit. It was not fashion he pictured Hank to have any sense of, and Connor couldn't really say he liked the coat. It wasn't because it didn't look good, because it most certainly did. In fact, it was because it did look good. The belt on his mid drift was very flattering, showing off curves that Connor didn't actually have. Wow! He decided to leave the belt undone and he shuffled outside.   
  
The cold hurt. His damaged face howled, and Connor hastily pulled the scarf up over his nose and strode over to the passenger's side of the car, much to eager to get out of the wind and into a warm space. After buckling himself up, he and Hank had one exchange, and one exchange only; "Hank, was I not good enough to murder?"  
  
"I'm sorry, fucking what?" Hank blinked, staring at Connor.  
  
"Nothing," Connor huffed and turned his fead to look at the passenger window.  
  
Hank shook his head, trying to dismiss that comment entirely as he reversed out of the driveway.   
  
  
Hank had never realized just how close the park was to him home. He also hadn't connected in his mind just how close it was to the bridge from last night. As Hank was about to pull into the parking lot of the park, he came to a slow cruise, unwilling to let Connor out of the car at first. Connor hadn't seemed to notice, or at least he hadn't mentioned anything about the odd behavior. Finally he pulled into the parking lot and parked the car in an empty spot, looking over the dashboard of happy children playing on the equipment and enjoying the fresh snow.  
  
Connor sensed the atmosphere, and hesitated before unbuckling. That's when Hank abruptly locked the car doors. Connor let out a breath and sat back in his seat once more. "Yes?"  
  
"If I let you off here, are you just going to walk back over to that bridge and throw yourself off of it?"  
  
Connor stayed quiet for much longer than Hank appreciated. He did finally answer with a quiet, "No. There are children."  
  
Hank rubbed the bridge of his nose. Was he really just going to let this kid go? Just like that? "Am I going to open the newspaper tomorrow and find your face there in the obituaries?"   
  
"Sarte once said, 'Everything that exists is born for no reason, carries on living through weakness, and dies by accident.'" Connor paused, glancing at Hank as the older man stared back at him with a minor disgust. Connor gave Hank a sympathetic smile. "What if we make a deal?"  
  
Hank's brow furrowed. "What kind of deal?"  
  
Connor gingerly removed one of the mittens from his hand and held the seriously damaged finger tips into Hank's field of vision. "I can't play a guitar like this. So I won't kill myself until I can play 'You Are My Sunshine' on your guitar for you." Connor put the mitten back on.  
  
Hank was skeptical. He tossed the idea around his mind a bit, and he couldn't deny the concept did make him feel much better. A next time. A next time applied Connor would be alive for a while. He wouldn't be investigating one day and find him floating in the river. "How will you play it on my guitar? We gonna see each other again?"  
  
Connor chuckled and unlocked the car door, letting himself out. "I know where you live, Lieutenant."   
  
Connor shut the car door, shoved his hands in his pockets after a little, curt wave... and just like that he was walking away once more. Hank watched for a while as Connor made his way past the play equipment into the thicket of trees on the other side. Maybe he lived in the neighborhood just beyond those trees. Maybe further. Hank didn't know, and he was itching to not know. He was ready for this little exciting venture to be over and done with.   
  
Hank wasn't exactly the epitome of high energy and smiles when he walked into the DPD bullpen. This much was obvious to his peers as not a single of them peeped a sound at the late hour in the morning Hank was finally settling in for work and powering on his computer for the day. Well... almost everyone kept their mouths shut.  
  
"Hey, geezer. You drink yourself to sleep last night or what?" Hank rolled his eyes at the comment, but the younger detective continued. "Or maybe your hooker stole your car keys this morning and you actually had to get some exercise for once?"  
  
"Gavin, you have worse insults than a catty, high school girl. You know that, right?" Hank finally retorted, spinning his chair around so that he could see the shit-eating grin on the detective's face. Hank honestly couldn't figure out if this was Gavin's way of checking in, or if he was sincerely just being a giant piece of shit. Both were entirely plausible. "I think you're just jealous because I can afford a hooker and come to work late if I really want to."  
  
Gavin faux laughed. "Real funny. Male prostitutes aren't exactly on the high end of expense in Detroit you fucking fag."  
  
This turned everyone's heads. Being an asshole was generally expected of young Gavin Reed, but not hate-speech. They watched Hank's reaction expectantly, but Hank only laughed. "Exactly my point. Sorry your salary isn't cutting it each night without having a soft pussy for someone to fuck instead of that hybrid excuse of a twink and a bear you call an ass."   
  
This time it was Gavin's turn to laugh. He waves off Hank and Hank chuckled, spinning back to his desk to work. He met the gazes of several people peeking over this desks. "What?" Hank growled, which put them back in their places, noses to their computer screens. Gavin was harmless. If Hank didn't give him some shit talk once in a while he was fairly sure the guy would implode, opening a vortex to a dimension where people were jerking off to smiles and glitter before cumming blood.   
  
"Anderson," another familiar voice approached Hank's desk, which caused him to emit a deep groan. He had just fucking sat down.... This time it was a small female, although recognizable in the face was forgettable in name. Hank really had no idea who she was, but he nodded politely as she addressed him so that she could continue her dark sentence. It rang like sirens in his ears and seared like fire in his blood as she uttered the last words he wanted to hear in that moment. "the body of a 30-or-something year old man was just found in the river next to Mt. Elliott Park. It's in your jurisdiction."   
  
So it was.  
  
  
  
  
  
_So he was._


	4. Sleeping on Swing Sets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of pedophilia

' _What a shit show,_ ' Hank thought as he watched the washed up body be zipped up in a black body bag. At least it wasn't Connor. The entire drive to the park was filled with absolute dread. He was so braced to see Connor's body being zipped up and dragged away that now the tension was all but squeezed out of him and he just felt like jelly....  
  
Now that the initial scare was out of the way, he had work to attend you. He did get a few more details on the drive over;  
The body was called in by a woman who was walking her dog along the riverside. At the same time there was another call about a potential kidnapping. The pieces were there, but fuck if he wanted to bother a traumatized kid to connect the dots.   
  
Hank scratched his head as Gavin looked over the body bag. "I've seen enough river bodies to know this wasn't some old jump and sink. Fucker's not even remotely bloated. No bugging eyes or nothin'."  
  
Hank silently made his way over to the parked ambulance nearby where a child was being exmained and consoled by her fretting mother. "Are you Mrs. Libbon?"  
  
The woman brushed her fingers through her child's hair, pulling the girl's face into her chest. "Can't this wait?"  
  
"Ma'am," Gavin strode up next to Hank with his hands in his coat pockets, "we just want to ask you and the girl a few questions and then we'll get out of your hair. Do you want the sleezeball who tried to take your daughter caught or not?"  
  
Hank punched the back of Gavin's head at about the same time the mother covered her daughter's ears and all but hissed like a harpy at the insensitive detective.  
  
Hank fumbled to clean up the mess. "Look, I had a kid too. I know this isn't easy, but we think we already have a lead and we want to make sure no one else has to experience what your daughter went through."  
  
"I understand, detective," the mother started, "but let me just make sure my daughter understands before she has to start being badgered. Can't you just start with the other guy?"  
  
The other guy? Hank blinked and turned his attention to Gavin. "What other guy?"  
  
"Some prick," Gavin grumbled, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb to a parked police car that held a very familiar passenger in the back seat. Gavin sighed and started towards the police car, away from the ambulance. "Guy is probably a kid diddler too. Won't say a word to the officers."  
  
Hank wanted a drink. He stared at the familiar face in the police car until Connor finally took notice and jauntily waved with a cuffed hand. "God dammit, Connor...."  
  
Gavin all but flaked out. "Wait! You know this motherfucker?"  
  
"He isn't a moth-...," Hank wiped a stressed hand down his face, "-his name is Connor. He was with me last night, I dropped him off here this morning before work."  
  
Gavin was both dumbstruck and entirely amused. His expression quickly shifted between shock, muted realization, and finally disgusted enjoyment. "Wait wait, are you saying that's the fag hooker you brought home?" Gavin laughed.  
  
"He's not a hooker, Gavin. He's just a very strange individual who fell into my hands. So explain to me why he's cuffed in a police car?"   
  
"Right," Gavin scratched his nose, side-eyeing Connor. "See, initially we thought he was the kidnapper. Mum caught him red-handed pulling the little girl's pants down out under the bridge after her daughter went missing and she went to look for her."  
  
"Jesus Christ," Hank made a face of rage and disgust at Connor, who responded with an eye roll and a shift to face away from Hank. "So you're telling me I housed a pedophile last night?"  
  
"See, this is where it gets complicated," Gavin huffed. "Your boy toy claims he was just helping the girl and that the real creep fell into the river when he was trying to make a break for it. That just happened to be when mom showed up. I don't buy it, though." Gavin pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it up. With a deep inhale and exhale of smoke he looked back over to the ambulance. "A normal guy would have chased down that gross fuckhead, but instead this 'Connor' fucker decided to have some more private time with the kid. All we have to go on is the little girl's word, and she won't talk yet. Connor turned himself over to the police to not make a scene, but so far he hasn't told us anything of interest."  
  
"So we've got a hysterical mother, two mutes, and a dead body to go by."  
  
"That sums it up."   
  
"Peachy." Hank stuffed his hands in his pockets and meandered over the police car. He eyed Connor through the window suspiciously before opening the passenger seat door and taking a seat. "Connor."  
  
"Yes, Lieutenant?"   
  
"Did you molest that little girl?"  
  
"No, Lieutenant."   
  
"So why were you at the scene of the crime?"  
  
"It's a classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I simply chose to help the little girl rather than apprehend the criminal because there was no way to take him in alive."  
  
Hank raised an eyebrow and nodded in suspicious understanding of the story so far. He still didn't turn around to look at Connor. "So what made you think we couldn't take him in alive? Did you know he was going to fall into the river or something?"  
  
"Correct, Lieutenant."   
  
This time Hank did turn. He stared at Connor for a long time, trying to see past any facade or hint that Connor might be full of shit, but Connor simply stared back with that naive charm that contradicted everything Hank knew about him so far. "How the hell could you know that?"  
  
"The culprit's eyes were acutely dilated" Connor began bluntly. "He had been here for the last couple of days seeking out an appropriate victim to suit his needs before settling on a target. During these stalking sessions he showed signs of shaking, malnutrition, and abrupt mood changes that resulted in him storming around the playground. I'm positive that when you receive an autopsy report you will find remnants of the recreational stimulant Red Ice. Today, however, he was suffering from an overdose and would have died shortly after running a short distance due to myocardial infarction."   
  
Hank stared at Connor, completely flabbergasted.   
  
"A heart attack, Han-"  
  
"I know what myocardial infarction is, Connor! Why the fuck were you spying on this guy for two days-"  
  
"Four days," Connor corrected.  
  
Hank groaned and faced the front window again, running his hands down his face. "Just why?"  
  
"Because I knew what he wanted to do, and I wanted to catch him in the act so he could be put away. Unfortunately when he tried to run, he slipped on ice and hit his head on the pavement before falling into the river. I imagine the cause of his death was more likely a stroke or head trauma than drowning."    
  
Hank tried to collect his thoughts. "So you've been skulking around this park for four days hunting down a pedophile. You were just helping the girl get herself re-dressed...."  
  
"Correct, Lieutenant. But I understand why nobody would believe me. The only thing that could clear my name is the victim's testimony that I'm not the one who attacked her. I'm not that desperate to walk free at the moment. She is suffering more than I am, so just give her the due time she needs. I'm sure I'll be in the clear by this evening."   
  
Hank knew Connor was right, but Connor's story raised so many more questions than answered. Well, at least Hank could try to do one thing.... He groused as he lifted himself from the passenger's seat and opened Connor's door. He pulled Connor out of the car by his cuffs and dragged the poor, freezing man over to the ambulance. At this time the small girl seemed more alert and communicative as she whispered back and forth with her mother and the paramedics.   
  
"Mrs. Libbon, this is Connor."  
  
Mrs. Libbon quickly wrapped her arms around her small daughter, her expression fierce and protective. "Excuse me! Keep that man away from her, this is completely unprofessional!"  
  
Hank tugged at Connor's cuffs, causing the shorter man to wince in discomfort. "I assure you, ma'am, this man is no danger to your child now or ever. I'd like to prove it, if I may?" Mrs. Libbon stood, keeping her daughter safely shielded behind her as Hank so kindly unlocked and removed Connor's cuffs. "Now then, your daughter knows who hurt her, and she knows who _saved_ her. As far as Connor's story is concerned, he helped your daughter."  
  
"And you believe him?"  
  
"I believe him _entirely_." All parties stared at Hank with a bit if disbelief. On what grounds? How could this be happening so insensitively? "Mrs. Donahue, I know criminals come in all shapes and sizes, but I've talked to enough to know this kid's story checks out. Give him a chance to clear his name here."  
  
"Hank," Connor waved his hands in front of his face, "This is entirely unncecessary. I don't mind going to the DPD until this is cleared up and-"  
  
It was then that the child peeked out from behind her mother, responding curiously to the familiar, albeit frantic, voice. Mrs. Libbon felt the shift, and quickly turned around to attempt to console her child once more. "Nancy, it's ok. Just stay behind mommy, ok?"  
  
"Nancy was it?" Hank inquired, voice softening. "Nancy, do you know this man?" he asked, gesturing to Connor.  
  
Nancy nodded from within her mother's protective grasp.   
  
Hank smiled. "Can you tell me something? Just need a yes or no, if you can. Did this man try to take off any of your clothes?"  
  
Nancy didn't hesitate. She shook her head no.   
  
"This is outrageous," Mrs. Libbon spun on her heel, pointing a finger at Hank, "How dare you force me daughter to talk about this right here!"  
  
"Mommy," Nancy chimed in, "he came for me."   
  
Mrs. Libbon turned around again. "Baby?"  
  
"He saved me from the sick man before the sick man fell down. This man scared the other man away, but he didn't scare me."  
  
Everyone was dumbstruck, except Hank. He smiled wide and put his arm around Connor's shoulders to lead him away. About 10 feet from the car, he was intercepted by Gavin, which Hank took as an opportunity to set the rules for the next 24 hours. "The little girl cleared Connor's name for the time being. Here," Hank rummaged in his pocket and tossed Gavin a small recorder. "It's got Connor's and Nancy's suspect and victim reports on it, clean as a whistle. Take a listen, I'll shoot you a report tonight. I'm taking Connor home."   
  
Gavin looked the recorded over in his hand. "Hank, wait, hold up," he trotted over to Hank was hustling Connor along as discreetly as possible. He shoved Connor into the passenger seat of his car and shut the door, facing Gavin's frustrated mug. "I don't know who you think you are, but you can't just flip this audio on and free a suspected criminal."  
  
"Yes I can," Hank pulled his keys from his coat pocket and pushed past Gavin. "If anyone else has an issue with it, they got my cell." Hank started the engine and rolled down the window, waving at Gavin as he drove away, "see you tomorrow, Detective Reed!"  
  
"Tomorrow?! Hank!" Gavin shouted, nearly dropping the recorder. He stamped his foot on the ground and cursed on his breath. He's have to clean up here on his own....  
  
  
Connor was silent in the car, waiting for the bomb to drop. Hank asked ever so innocently, "So, where do you live again?"  
  
"Hank," Connor whispered, twiddling with his fingers, "Why did you believe me so easily?"  
  
"Couldn't tell you if I wanted to," Hank let out a long breath. "I guess I just know an innocent man when I see one. Besides, if your story checks out, the autopsy reports will clear you up in a couple of days. Just lay low. Now, your home?"  
  
Connor hesitated. "Uh... I-...," Connor shrugged his shoulders and in a soft voice admitted with defeat, "I don't have one."  
  
Hank pulled over to the side of the road. He ran his hands through his hair and turned to Connor. "You're homeless?"  
  
"Yes," Connor nodded, a wash of shame on his face.   
  
"...Is that why you knew so much about that guy? You been sleeping in that park?"  
  
Connor nodded again. "I've had a few job interviews. Unfortunately many don't hire on the spot. You need an address and phone number. I have an email that I frequently check at the public library, but so far I've had no luck with securing money for a place to live. I was actually coming back from an interview when I met you last night...."  
  
  
Hank was finally speechless. This person had ripped words from his mouth before, but now Hank had none to share. So he didn't. Hank quietly turned back into the road and began to drive again. The road was promisingly empty. Hank turned up the heat and the music in the car, a low jazz buzzing through the car to break up the silence. Part of Hank was waiting for Connor to ask to be released from the car, but now knowing what he knew... Connor was probably grateful for the warmth. In fact...  
  
it explained why Connor didn't resist to much about the possibility of being falsely locked in a cell.   
  
What a nightmare.   
  
It was a short drive back to Hank's house. He parked the car and told Connor to get out while he did the same. He ushered Connor into the house once more, stripping the abashed man out of his borrowed winter clothes and herding him down the hallway to a closed door. Hank took a deep inhale and opened it, revealing a rather empty room with a double bed and a small, dusty desk and bookshelf. Hank walked into the room and opened a closet door, dragging some old blankets and sheets down from a high shelf and tossing them on the bed.  
  
Finally, Connor ventured to figure out the situation. "What are we doing, exactly?"  
  
"We," Hank began, stripping his coat off and beginning to figure out the fitted sheets, "are cleaning up your temporary bedroom so that you can get your shit together."   
  
  
There was a strangeness neither man could shake, and it somehow felt both revolting and comforting. As the day progressed into evening and evening progressed into night, it began to feel like there was a force so much bigger than the walls around them both pulling them apart and pushing them together that made the whole situation somewhat awkward, yet completely natural all in the same instance. Connor began to take note of many confusing things about Hank. For example, the man insisted on buying Connor something suitable to wear for a job interview the following day, accepting to be repaid down the road while cooking and feeding himself and Connor something borderline inedible due to his own lack of grocery shopping and overall self care. Connor noted how Hank insisted that Connor allow him to help clean the growing infection from the frostbite on Connor's back and thighs, since Connor struggled to reach those places in his current state. Yet Hank did this with fingers that had nails chewed down from stress and scars on the corners of his rough and hard worked hands. Hank clearly wanted Connor to sleep so that he could diveinto a beer in peace and quiet, but not before making sure Connor was comfortable in the guest room and completely warm. The older man even sat on Connor's bed, shooting the shit with the younger man for a bit....  
  
"You know, if you had killed yourself last night, nobody would have been there to rescue that girl."  
  
"That's incorrect," Connor whispered. "Like I said before, he most likely would have perished before doing too much psychological damage. Regardless, her mother was obviously close enough to possibly catch the criminal herself."  
  
Hank made a soft noise. "I somehow doubt that. I think you should take the small victories, Connor. It might help you feel better."  
  
Connor blinked. "Are you still talking about my suicide attempt?"  
  
Hank laced his fingers together and leaned against the wall, Connor's legs propped on his lap. He sighed deeply. "Well between being homeless, failing job interviews, being cold and hungry, I could see why it was appealing."  
  
"It's always appealing to me, Hank, but not because of that."  
  
Hank raised a curious eyebrow. "Enlighten me."  
  
"It just... is," Connor mustered. "It is difficult to explain, but although it's similar to depression induced suicide, I assure you the desire is motivated by something a bit different...."  
  
"Are you suicidal now?"  
  
Connor stared at Hank. He pursed his lips for a moment, glancing around the room. "I think that I am too tired to think about it."  
  
"Good enough for me," Hank laughed, pushing Connor's legs off of his lap and standing up. He stretched his arms over his head and walked out into the hallway. "Mi casa es su casa. Help yourself to anything you need. We'll deal with the rest tomorrow." With that, Hank shut the door.  
  
  
Hank could see that precipice again... on Connor's face as Connor said those words. When would be the fall, he wondered?   
Who was Connor?    
Why dedicate so much time and energy into being some so seemingly ethereal?   
It made Hank's skin crawl. He was disgusted. But it also released butterflies in his stomach.   
He was attached. 


	5. "Alone" by Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor is learning a bit more about why Hank is so gun-ho about keeping Connor alive while Connor attempts to take care of a sick Hank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll know the song "Alone" by Heart? Go check out that acoustic if you want some more emotional insight into this chapter.
> 
> On another note, sorry it took so long to get this chapter out to you. I'd been dealing with a lot of my own emotional health problems this week and contemplating my own suicidal nonsense. Shout out to Amzy, Woofiechan, and ilovemiax for all of their wonderful comments. You three have been keeping me writing this.

  
  
  
Connor didn't often sleep. He at least never slept well. For the majority of the night he stared fixedly out the curtain-less window, watching as an occasional beam of light would sweep across the bedroom walls from a passing car's headlights. The orange neon in the sky was casting its electric glow over the city sleeping beneath. A street lamp's fluorescence peeked around the window sill's corner, much like the curious eyes of a sheepish raccoon that peers through the forest leaves in the eve. It was quiet. There was a faint hum from the electricity moving in the house that was comforting, as if he were listening the heartbeat of the home itself. Yet it wasn't enough white noise to let Connor escape his thoughts, and so the small things he could hear that were inconsistent were particularly annoying;  A faucet dripping, Hank's irregular snores, the fridge starting up and cooling down like some erratic tap dancer, and sometimes a ill-behaved dog barking in the distance.   
  
Connor much preferred the lullaby of sirens, people talking, cars passing by.... Neighborhoods like this were just so quiet that they were too noisy.  
  
  
With a groan Connor got out of the bed. His feet softly touched the cold, wood floor. His toes curled and reached towards the purple, shag rug closer to the center of the room. Connor couldn't help but think it was charmingly ugly. It was something a child would definitely like having in their room, and Connor didn't need to be a detective to know that this... this was most certainly the room of a deceased child. The room was empty, dusty, but had remnants of innocence and wonder remained such as the crayon scribbles lightly stained against white paint in the corners, or the residual tacky gum left on the ceiling after (possibly) glow-in-the-dark stars once adorned its freckled surface.   
  
Connor stood up. He wandered over to the small desk and chair against the far wall. He sat down, chuckling at how long the desk actually was. He traced his fingers gently against the dusty surface, admiring the soft ridges and carvings left from a young boy's fidgety boredom. He stood again, moving his hand along the wall as he reached the closet door. He opened it with a hushed squeak, and was met by a looming tower of cardboard boxes and plastic bins....  
  
Connor didn't think too hard about privacy when removing a box from the top shelf. He hauled it down into his arms with a grunt and noted the collection of dusty, worn toys half-hazardly chucked inside as he set it on the floor. Kneeling down, Connor pulled a few of the toys out one by one. There was a colorful, antique looking robot that had twisting arms and legs. This was followed by a collection of assorted monster cards and building blocks.   
Toy trains with smiling faces, remote airplanes, a deflated ball.... The boy seemed very typical, and Connor pieced that he met a very untimely death at a tragically young age.  
  
  
Connor put the toys back in the box and crawled on his hands and knees back to the closet. He rummaged his hand through a few contents buried under various blankets and children's clothes at the bottom, being careful not the topple the tower of memories when he noticed something bright and red that made a light "ting!" when he jostled a box near it. Curiously Connor maneuvered the larger toy from its prison and hauled it into the middle of the shag rug.  
  
Carmel stared. He ran his fingers carefully over the tiny keys. He lightly pinged a white one, then a black.... The notes were much higher on a child's toy piano he supposed. He pinged a key again, softly humming to match the note. Once more, "ping!" A soft hum.   
Connor smiled. It had that sort of jingling sound that a lot of 80's music loved to use. Not that synthesized sound, but that electric bell sound that gave ballads a more enchanted undertone.   
  
He loved it.  
  
Connor took a breath, placing his stiff, injured fingers in alignment and began a soft jingle of "Chopsticks." It was... a little painful, but not nearly as horrible as strumming a guitar would be. The keys were light and easy to pressure down. Connor let out another breath. He closed his eyes and began to play the jingling melody of "Alone" by Heart. It was flat and childish on this toy instrument, but it didn't lack emotion as Connor gingerly hummed along. He whispered the lyrics, his chest swelling with some intensity; " _I hear the ticking of the clock. I'm lying here, the room's pitch dark-..._ " a miss-placed key. Connor cussed under his breath. He paused in thought, then re-positioned his fingers. A different part of the song....  
  
[" _Until now, I always got by on my own. I never really cared until I met you,_ " he breathed, raising his face to the ceiling and closing his eyes, " _and now it chills me to the bone. How do I get you alone?_ " he crooned, " _how do I get you alone..._."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pkLQVQ_1FoQ)  
  
  
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"  
  
Connor all but jumped out of his skin as he abruptly turned his attention to the doorway. He hadn't even noticed Hank open it, and now he was staring at Connor with eyes that burned into him like cindered pyres. "I-I was just-..."  
  
"Who _are_ you?"   
  
Connor blinked. His confusion wasn't subtle. "I'm Connor. The man you dragged home out of irrational concern."   
  
Hank stared for a moment more, only jostled out of his trance by a pushy Sumo who trudged through the doorway and made a sudden display of affection on Connor's person, who accepted it graciously while also holding Hank in his sights.   
  
Hank made a undefinable noise at the dog. "You recognized it too, huh?" The heavy St. Bernard quietly gruffed out a small bark. Hank waved a hand and turned back. "Sorry, I thought I was still dreaming or something. It's early, think you could refrain from...," he waved his hand in a broad gestured, "... y'know, singing and digging around and shit for another few hours?"   
  
Connor nodded, watching with confusion as Hank retreated back to his own room and shut the door. Connor turned back to Sumo, brushing behind the overly-affectionate beast's ears as it attempted to be a lap dog, all but pushing the piano out of the way with his sheer size and weight. Connor barely noticed. His eyes tranced on Sumo's face as he thought. Sumo recognized something? "...Recognized what?" The toy piano?  
  
  
Connor managed to gather a couple hours of sleep under the warm mass of Sumo's hardy body. Dogs were always a source of comfort. He gently pushed the St. Barnard off of himself and decided to make himself useful in some way. After all..., he owed Hank something after all of his sudden kindness. "Food," Connor muttered, dragging himself out to the kitchen. The floor was so cold. Everything was cold. Connor held his own arms wondering why Hank didn't bother turning the heat on.... Maybe it was too expensive? Glancing at the many bottles on the counter, he imagined Hank's beer budget costed a small fortune. Connor opened the fridge, sighing at its contents. He didn't know what he was expecting to see exactly. He wasn't particularly hopeful, so maybe he just wanted to see how bad the damage actually was. "Depression, thy name is Hank Anderson," he murmured. Connor shut the door to the fridge.   
  
It couldn't be helped.  
  
Connor dressed himself in the winter clothes he was given and left the house into the cold and dark. He had a mission.  
  
  
Of course when Hank was finally up, he was all but ballistic. He tore around the house upon realizing Connor was not in his bedroom, or the bathroom, or anywhere for that matter. Connor's borrowed coat was gone. His shoes were gone. After Hank hurdled his own winter attire on his threw himself out the door, an energized Sumo on his tail. Hank cursed at the fresh footprints and fumbled himself and the dog into the car. He blared the wheels over the dense snow, just barely backing over the snowbank and into the road before he was off like a rocket towards the bridge.   
  
Hank practically held his breath the whole way. Low and behold, there standing and staring out over the rumbling river beneath was Connor.  
  
"Motherfucker," Hank hissed blaring the car to a stop on the side of the road and throwing himself from the vehicle once more. "Connor!" he shouted, lightly jogging over to the younger man.  
  
Connor turned, surprised on his otherwise rosy face. "Uh-... Lieutenant?"  
  
Connor flinched in shock as the older man caught up to him and grabbed his shoulders, holding him in place like iron and practically spitting in his face, "I thought we had a deal! You said ya wouldn't try anything until-...," Hank trailed off, noticing the white, plastic bag in Connor's hand. "What is that?"  
  
The panic on Connor's face slowly diffused as he flicked the bag a bit with his wrist. "Our breakfast." Hank languidly released Connor from his grasp. Connor smiled sympathetically, "And lunch."  
  
Hank was in disbelief. "You went grocery shopping?"  
  
"Correct."  
  
"With what money?"  
  
"I have my ways. Something like a meal credit."  
  
Hank was becoming embarrassed which of course blended with pride well enough to produce a heated cocktail of emotion. "Why didn't you just leave a note or something? Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me." Hank rubbed his forehead with both hands and ran them down his face. "I thought you came here to kill yourself again."  
  
Connor shook his head. "I promised you I wouldn't do that until I could play your guitar. You just happened to catch me on the way home from the market." Connor watched considerately as Hank leaned over with his hands on his knees. "I'm sorry. You're right, I should have left a note. I wanted to surprise you."  
  
Hank abruptly dropped to one knee in the snow. Sumo began to bark wildly from the car. Connor quickly knelt beside him, "Hank? What's wrong?"  
  
Connor quickly inspected the older man when he got no reply. He seemed to be out of breath and unable to support his own balance. "Hank, it appears you have asthma and a slight possibility of a minor lung infection. We need to get you out of the dry air." Connor took his glove off and placed his hand on Hank's forehead. He was burning up.... Connor slipped down to drape one of Hank's arms over his shoulder and hoist him upward.  
  
This didn't set well with Hank who immediately pushed himself off of Connor. "Fuck you, I'm fine," he heaved, nearly stumbling over.  
  
Connor was quick to catch him. He re-adjusted Hank into a propped position, balancing him as he led the older man back to the car. He wobbled him into the passenger seat, fending off a worried Sumo as he buckled him in before turning to the driver's seat. Connor turned the keys left in the ignition only to roll an inch or two and stall....  
  
Hank rolled his tired head over. "You don't know how to drive stick?"  
  
"I'm a quick study," Connor muttered back.   
  
Hank was never to thankful to black out in his life.   
  
When Hank awoke he was propped up on an extravagant amount of pillows and tucked carefully into his bed. He was starting to feel the effects of the fever.... Everything felt sore; his bones, the clothes rubbing against his skin, his eyelids shutting to drown out the daylight peeking through the broken blinds. Just as he was about to get up, Connor was letting himself into his room with a tray of something or another and quickly setting it down on the cluttered dressed to push Hank back into bed. "Don't try to get up, you need to rest."  
  
"What the fuck even happened?" Hank mumbled, rubbing his face. Even that hurt. Connor retrieved the tray and set it down on Hank's lap. It was a disgustingly beautiful display; a cup of hot tea and a bowl of frothy, green soup that looked like vomit. Hank grimaced. "What is this?"  
  
"Ginger tea and garlic-spinach soup. It's very effective in the treatment of lung infections and common colds," Connor chipperly answered before sitting on the edge of the bed. "I was going to make stir-fry but I figured this was a more practical use of these ingredients."   
  
Hank stared down at the meal and then back up at Connor. "You think I have a lung infection?"  
  
Connor frowned. "I hope you don't mind ,but I checked your temperature after getting you into bed. You have a high fever. Your natural breathing pattern is inconsistent with some slight wheezing. It's unsurprising really," Connor reasoned, gesturing to Hank's sideboard as Hank's eyes followed. "I found your inhaler. The medication is an antihistamine, so I thought it was safe to assume you have cold induced asthma. Couple that up with a suspended immune system while sleeping in a frigidly cold bedroom, I can't deduce any other explanation for you to faint out in the snow while catching your breath."   
  
Hank stared at Connor for a long time.  
  
After an awkward minute Connor began to fidget and adverted his eyes. "I'm sorry, is my face peeling again? I thought I got most of the dead skin off."  
  
"No, it's just," Hank began, somewhat at a lot for words, "one would think you were a detective what with how quickly you assess and solve situations."   
  
Connor smiled and nodded, but didn't answer. "Eat that soup."  
  
Hank groaned, flicking the spoon against the side of the bowl. "Connor, I'm not sure how to tell you this, but I'm not some old geezer who needs a young hot shot to bring me lunch in bed. And it's uh... it's less than appetizing looking."  
  
"Eat it," Connor demanded more sternly.   
  
Hank made a sour face as he awkwardly brought a small spoonful to his lips. He took a bite small enough for a mouse, squinting as he tried to decide whether or not it was even remotely edible. To his surprise, it wasn't too bad. He stared Connor down wearily as he took in a spoonful.  
  
"Thank you in advance for your cooperation," Connor grinned as he rose from the bed and left the room.   
  
Hank wasn't sure what to make of the situation. Maybe he'd made a huge mistake taking in a strange, suicidal, 30-something-year old into his home.... Famous last words. He didn't have much time to contemplate it before Connor was stampeding back in, Sumo in tow, and hauling the little, red piano in with him. Hank protested, "Hey hey hey! What did I say about that thing?"  
  
"You said not to play it in the middle of the night, which is completely reasonable I might add," Connor answered honestly as he set it on the end of Hank's bed. Connor climbed up alongside it, sitting cross legged in front of the pinging instrument as Sumo jumped up and curled himself at Hank's feet.  
  
Hank groaned. "Christ, it's like I have two dogs now...."   
  
"Sumo can do something really interesting," Connor declared, beginning to ping the piano keys into a tune. Again, a song by 80's rock band _Heart_. Sumo's tail waved excitedly, followed by a couple of low, rumbling howls. Connor laughed, turning to Hank. "Your dog sings, but only with that one band's songs."  
  
Hank took another bite of his soup. "That's because he used to get sung to. He's spoiled."  
  
Connor tilted his head curiously. "You sing?"  
  
"Not me, no," Hank answered.  
  
Connor turned his head back to the piano. "Did your son sing to him?"  
  
Hank let out a long breath (as long of one as he could anyway before coughing). He set the spoon down. "Why are you so nosy all of a sudden?"  
  
"I suspect you want me to be your roommate."  
  
Hank didn't answer, he simply stared.  
  
"Esse est percipi," Connor continued. "I want to know where it's safe to tread, because so far I've been walking on thin ice while you've been holding a lifeline out to me, and you won't tell me why."   
  
"I don't want you to kill yourself, that's why. If I can do something to stop it, then I will."  
  
Connor knew that wasn't the whole truth. The whole situation between them was too impersonal to not be personal.... Connor adjusted his hands on the keys again. He began the pings again to the tune he played the night before. Hank stared down into his soup. Connor sang with a soft voice, trying not to rile up Sumo too much. " _You don't know how long I have wanted to touch your face and hold you tight. You don't know how long I have waited, and I was going to tell you tonight..., but the secret is still my own. And my love for you is still unknown, alone._ "   
  
Hank shook his head.  
  
Connor side eyed him. "That. That right there. That face. This song is important to you for some reason."   
  
Hank coughed. "The short version is that I used to be in a band, together with my wife. She sang, I played bass and sometimes sang too. We did old rock stuff, Heart and Pat Benatar being her favorites. Before we were together, I confessed my feelings to her with that song." Connor was a bit dumbstruck. He regretted bringing in the toy piano now, and gently placed it on the floor and out of the way. Hank continued with some earnest, not wanting to see Connor feeling bad. "It wasn't our special song or anything like that, but it still holds some sentimental value to me I guess."   
  
"I'm sorry," Connor whispered sheepishly. "That was incredibly inconsiderate of me to pry, but can I ask one more personal question?"  
  
Hank didn't answer. He took another bite of the weird soup in silence.  
  
Connor ventured forward. "Where is your wife now?"  
  
"She committed suicide a couple years before my son went." Hank set the tray forward and leaned back in the pillows. "Thanks for the food. I'm going to sleep now."  
  
Connor was frozen. He tried to quickly shake it off, but he was tense as he lifted the tray from Hank's lap and took it out of the room. He wouldn't force Hank to finish it, not after his incredibly insensitive line of questioning, but suddenly things began to make more sense.   
As Connor placed the tray on the kitchen counter, his awareness of the household grew, and the haunting sensation of lingering tragedy shook him to his core. He didn't know how to interpret it now-.... the fact that Hank had given him the winter clothes of a dead woman. Did Hank know how eerie that was? He probably didn't think too much about it. Yet despite all of it, that lingering sense of dread filled Connor's stomach and he took Hank's old guitar from its stand and sat on the couch.  
  
Sumo joined Connor at his feet, letting out small whines as Connor painfully and selfishly tried to pluck the chords to ' _You Are My Sunshine_.' 


	6. Semi-Symmetrical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Connor bond a bit before having their lives upturned by a very familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kind comments. I was overwhelmed with the response, and I'm so appreciate of all your kind words. I'm sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out. I'm going to try to be better about getting them out at reasonable intervals.
> 
> Btw you can follow me on tumblr if you'd like. My name there is also Trimitive. Pretty easy to find.

**Day 10**  
  
Feeling loved wasn't exactly something Connor understood. Love was just a bi-product of one's infatuation, or at least that's how he most often understood it. During his life time he had many people say "I love you" to him, and he would say those words back in return because that is what the exchange usually entailed. Most of the time he absolutely meant it; "I love you," he'd say, with a swelling pressure in his chest and adoration for the recipient..., but when people said it to him, he felt nothing. It felt false, and empty, and more than anything that made him lonely.

All love, whether it was from lovers or family or friends...  
all of it felt unrequited, whether or not he wanted to believe otherwise.  
And that was hard.  
It was so hard loving people so much, and not feeling a single thing in return.  
It was so so hard....

And it wasn't as if people didn't show their love in small ways. He remembered childhood birthday parties, hugs, kisses, people remembering his well being or demonstrating in some form that they took him into consideration. He remembered being cradled by his mother when he had nightmares. He remembered his friends giving him that new video game he'd been wanting for months for his birthday. People in his life absolutely showed him love. They practically draped it over his shoulders like a thick, wool blanket...

And Connor absolutely could see the blanket, and he could touch the blanket, but he couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel how soft it was, or how heavy and warm it was, and the second he thought maybe he could sort of feel the tickle of the cozy stitching against his finger tips, the blanket dusted into nothing around him... not even a spec of love remaining in the decay.

It was as if it was never there to begin with. That was sort of how everything felt.  
That's exactly how he felt that night when he stood on the railing of that bridge. His body had ached. He ached as he moved, and ached as he breathed. The storm consumed his body in its wrath, but for Connor it didn't present itself as vicious. For Connor, the cold throws of dusting, icy powder were warm caresses to his skin. The enveloping breadth of crystalized white were like the arms of a comforting love. With every painful, sharp, cold breath Connor made in the icy air, he felt life pour forth into his lungs, like he were a newborn taking its first breath of life. Perhaps this wasn't so untrue in theory, because the more the winter dripped into his body by whatever means it managed to soak, the more his pain crystalized and shattered. He was born again as he was taken into the loving embrace of the evanescent sublime as though it were his own parent.

His real parent.  
His _real mother_.

Perhaps his life had been a patchwork of existence, but as he stood there that night about to take a step towards death he felt more welcome to exist in that moment than anything else did in the world. He was ready to let go.

Then Hank showed up, and Hank didn't threaten him with false care, and he didn't tell him not to die.  
He told him not to die right then. He told Connor to wait. Just wait. Give it another day.  
  
  
When Connor felt those hands, he also felt Hank's pain. His desire to save Connor was selfish, and not at all masked as selfless. Hank wanted Connor alive because he _needed_ something.... There was something Hank wanted that only Connor could give, and as two weeks rolled by saying under the roof of the Anderson household, Connor failed to figure out what exactly it was.  
  
They would watch TV in the evenings when Hank finally got home from work, and Connor would sit on the opposite end of the couch just staring at Hank. Hank wouldn't say anything. Connor watched Hank's deep set eyes, and how they flickered and relaxed as the colors on the screen danced over his vision. He observed the older man's unkept hair, and how it was less well kept than Hank's beard. Connor noted that Hank had a scar on his left cheek, and his hands often twitched and shifted as though he were extremely conscious of where they were placed at any given time. Hank knew Connor was watching, because they did this almost every night, and not once did Hank probe the behavior.  
  
Rather, if Hank started to feel uncomfortable he'd ask an unrelated question without turning his attention away from the screen. For example, as the credits rolled on their now mutual favorite crime show Hank asked, "So did that cat behave any better today?"  
  
Connor smiled. "Well we separated it from the other two. We put it in its own cage, and it seems to be doing better. I think someone might be interested in adopting her, but who can say?" Connor pulled his knees to his chest. "Next week I will have worked there long enough to get a 20% discount on dog food. I can help feed Sumo."  
  
"Do you like working there?"  
  
Connor shrugged. "A job is a job. I wouldn't have been able to get it without you. I'm grateful." Connor turned his attention to Sumo who was sleeping soundly in the corner in front of the new, electric heater. "Besides, I really like animals. That store sells a lot of tropical fish. I've always been really fascinated with ocean life."  
  
Hank raised a remote and clicked the TV off. They sat in the dark, aside from the street lights watching their conversation through the curtains. "You ever think about studying marine biology?"  
  
"I did," Connor admitted, staring at his toes as he rested his chin on his knees. "It ended up just not being for me, I guess. I've only ever been to the ocean once, so reading about it in a book just sort of makes me feel melancholy."  
  
Hank had to double-take. "You've only been to the ocean once? Really?"  
  
Connor laughed. "It's not that unbelievable."  
  
Hank paused, breathing out a deep sigh. "I guess. I mean, I grew up in Maine for the most part. The ocean is just kind of there. I guess it's weird for me to think that people aren't familiar with it." Connor made a small noise of affirmation which Hank took as his cue to call it a night. He stood with a grunt, placing his empty beer bottle on the coffee table and starting down the hallway. "Don't stay up too late, okay? You get gloomy at night."  
  
"Got it," Connor answered seriously.  
  
Then he smiled.  
  
  
**Day 13**  
  
"Hank, it's kind of..."  
  
"What?" Hank turned, holding the bright, orange shirt up with a wide grin, "Out with it."  
  
"Ugly," Connor admitted, eyeballing the pink flamingos printed all over the fabric. "I really don't want to wear that."  
  
"Come on," Hank teased, tossing the shirt onto Connor's head. The plastic hanger clamored to the floor and Connor hurriedly tried to retrieve it. "Just try it on. See if it fits."  
  
Connor held the shirt up carefully. Of all the options in the store.... "Hank, really, I-"  
  
"No, you said, and I quote, 'if you don't drink for two days I will wear whatever you choose as your plus one.' Well this is what I'm choosing."   
  
Connor grimaced. "I did say that."  
  
Hank laughed. "You should have picked a harder challenge. I'm an alcoholic, not a quitter. If that were true, I'd have quit drinking by now."  
  
Connor didn't find the joke as funny. He begrudgingly walked to the dressing room. He stripped, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror as he did so. Mirrors in dressing rooms always made people look worse than they actually did. There was plenty Connor didn't want to see. He buttoned up the tropical shirt quickly, then glanced only momentarily in the mirror.  
It was awful.  
  
Connor begrudgingly began to leave his stall in the dressing room, fidgeting in his discomfort. "I'm coming out. Don't laugh," he demanded. Ready to be teased and prodded on how ridiculous and bright the outfit was, he was greeted to Hank wearing a purple variation of the same shirt, but with pink pineapples wearing yellow sunglasses. Hank also wore giant, thick rimmed, purple sunglasses and a pink flamingo-beaded necklace. His grin was priceless.  
  
Connor immediately bursted out laughing. Hank did the same.  They both looked so stupid.  
  
Maybe the DPD "fake-summer" party would be fun after all.   
  
**Day 14**  
  
Hank was working late. There was a delicate case down at the DPD that he needed to pay a lot of attention to. That was the round-about phone call anyway. It was the first night he had been left alone since moving in with Hank. It felt odd. It felt... detached.  
  
Oh no.  
  
Oh no. Oh no no oh no....  
  
...  
  
No, it was real. This was real.  
  
Connor walked to the back door, Sumo following a bit jostled from Connor's sudden movement from laying on the couch. He opened it, allowing Sumo to dash into the snowy back yard happily.  
  
Connor's intentions were different though. He stared into the snowy sky. He inhaled deeply through his nose, his nostrils immediately sticking shut from the frozen air. He was frozen. His head was frozen.   
  
In the quiet, he wondered... was this all real? Was any of it real? He took a step into the snow, the temperature of its softness biting into his bare foot like some hungry creature, but were the creature's teeth real? Did they snarl? Did they lock and grind?   
  
Not even 2 weeks ago Connor was sleeping in this cold, huddled inside a tube slide and fighting for his life.   
  
_Although he didn't need to._  
  
_He could have just gone home._  
  
Was this home?  
  
Was this real...?  
  
Wouldn't it feel more real to die? Then he could prove that there was an echo bouncing against skull corners rather than a deep sadness. _Cogito, ergo sum_.  
  
"You are my sunshine," Connor sang softly, "my only sunshine. When you're not happy," a breath and a clenched hand again his chest, "my skies are grey. You'll never know, dear... how much I love you. Please, oh please... oh please, please please please...," Connor took a step back into the threshold.  
  
Suddenly the front door opened. Connor merely glanced over his shoulder as Hank trudged through the door, quickly stripping his coat away and brushing out his snowy hair and beard. "Connor! You still u-... oh," Hank stopped when he noticed Connor standing in the darkened doorway. "What are you doing? You're letting the cold in." He began to remove his shoes.  
  
"I was just letting Sumo out to pee," he smiled, turning his back out to the yard.   
  
"That so?" Hank asked skeptically. He stared at Connor's back... that soft glow from the orange, city glow wrapping Connor's body in a halo of artificial warmth. Connor didn't respond. Of course not, because it wasn't so. His shoulders, broad as they were, were small as they trembled. "You're cold. Sumo will let us know when he's done, just shut the door."  
  
Connor didn't move.  "Hey. Did you go to the bar?"  
  
Hank grinned. "How could you tell? Damn, haven't even been home five minutes."  
  
"I just had a hunch. I figured that if you really did have a delicate case you'd wand to get a drink before coming home." Connor grabbed his own arm, rubbing it passively but not turning to Hank. His eyes watched beyond the distance. Sumo barreled back into the house, but Connor continued to stand in the breadth of the cold. "You shouldn't drive after drinking. It's reckless."  
  
Hank scoffed and rose, taking down the hallway. "I don't need you lecturing me about reckless shit. There's nobody on the road."  
  
"Do you do it in hopes something bad will happen?"  
  
Hank stopped. He let out a long sigh and looked down at the floor. "That's real ballsy coming from you."  
  
"Are you hoping to die, Lieutenant?" Connor turned his head. Hank did the same... and there it was again. Connor's expression was something inhuman. It was soft, fragile, but more resolved and powerful than he had ever seen on any living thing. Hank almost had to advert his gaze, his heart clambering against his ribs as though he saw the eyes of something he was never meant to gaze upon. Relief only came when Connor spoke again, a dust of powdered snow brushing against his pale cheek, "It's ok if you're looking for an excuse. Who am I going to tell?"  
  
Connor seemed to be screaming, but there was nothing that would indicate that he was.... It was just a sense.   
  
Hank didn't say another word as he retreated to his bedroom.  
  
Connor took this as a sign that he had overstepped, and he finally shut the door. Just as it clicked, he was sputtering to the side as a pillow whomped his head. Connor clutched the pillow in his hands, staring at it curiously, then turning to see Hank coming down the hallway with another one. "Hank...?"  
  
"You force me to turn on the heat and then you let it all out, what the fuck is that all about?" Hank scowled, stomping towards Connor and hitting the younger man hard against the back of the head with the pillow. He was relentless, beating Connor down to his knees with the soft comfort, bombarding him with a list of wild accusations. "You think you're better than me? Huh? Punk? Where's your fight? Where's all that big talk gone to, hm? Come on!" Just as Hank was about to land a finishing blow, Connor shielded himself with his own pillow and pushed up, knocking Hank back.  
  
Connor glared at Hank, holding the pillow strong in his grasp. "Hank, this is ridiculous."  
  
"No, what's ridiculous is that you have the balls to call me out for driving buzzed while you're here thinking about killing yourself. Tell me, how does someone so damn smart become such a fucking quitter?"  
  
"I'm not quitting," Connor huffed.  
  
"Nah, you're just going to mooch off someone because you can't carry your own weight to make up your mind if you wanna live or you wanna die."  
  
Connor's face contorted with anger. With one swift movement, Connor lunged at Hank and knocked him over the head with the pillow, shoving Hank stumbling to the side. "At least I don't sink into a bottle of scotch the second something bad happens."  
  
"Oh, real nasty, Connor," Hank moved some hair from his face. "A sweet faced hobo giving me life advice. I need that like a punch in the head," Hank quickly whacked his pillow against Connor, but Connor blocked it with his own. Hank laughed. "Those fingers are looking good. Gonna play that guitar and then give up? Is that why I heard you singing before I came in?"  
  
"It's none of your business what I do with my life," Connor snapped, slamming his pillow against Hank hard enough to knock him over the back of the couch, landing the older man on his back. Connor hopped over the couch, straddling Hank's hips as he slammed the pillow down repeatedly on Hank's face. He continued to hit him between words, "I can't help it if none of this feels real!" He pushed the pillow on Hank's face, out of breath. He panted, leaning his forehead against the pillow. He could hear Hank's muffled breathing so close... just a few inches between white fabric and cotton.... "I'm scared, Hank...."  
  
  
They stayed like that for a while. The dark consumed them in a thick and comforting embrace. Hank's arms moved to add to that embrace, adding a layer of warmth around Connor's waist as large hands locked on the small of his back. Hank's body rumbled as he laughed. A muffled, "I can't breathe," came out and Connor hurriedly moved the pillow away, revealing Hank's sweaty face.   
  
Hank ruffled Connor's hair and pushed forward, pushing Connor off of him and onto the other end of the couch. "I can't tell you how to feel, Connor. But of all the things you can feel right now, scared shouldn't be one of them."  
  
Connor thought. Sure. He felt a bit more... energized and grounded now. Maybe even a bit giddy. "But what about tomorrow?"  
  
"What about it?" Hank asked, waving his hand and standing up. "Tomorrow isn't until tomorrow. No point in being scared about what hasn't even happened." With that, Hank retreated down the hallway and into his bedroom, grumbling something or another about a sore back.   
  
Connor sat motionless. Tomorrow....  
  
  
Another day. Just get through another day.   
  
One more.  
  
  
**Day 17**  
  
There were so many people Connor didn't know. He sat awkwardly, glancing around the bull pen while spinning the contents in his red solo cup. Hank was talking nearby with some of his co-workers. They all seemed to be having more fun than Hank was. Connor had to wonder why he was so insistent on coming with Connor if he wasn't even going to have a good time. The ugly, fake tropical vibe was certainly amusing though.... Colorful decorations, inflatable palm trees, and light up flamingos dangled from the ceiling.   
  
It was interesting seeing Hank in his work environment not working.... He hadn't really seen Hank in his work environment actually doing real, hard work after all.   
  
A man approached Connor. "Wow! I'm surprised you dressed up for the party. You didn't strike me the type if you don't mind me saying."  
  
Connor cocked his head to the side. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Well you just seemed so serious in the interview. I'm glad you came anyway," the man laughed.  
  
Connor peeked at the man's chest. A name tag read, "Fowler."  Connor frowned. "I'm sorry, I don't believe we've ever met. You must be confusing me for someone else."  
  
Captain Fowler raised an eyebrow. "No shitting? Come on, I just hired you a couple days ago, how'd I forget a face?"  
  
"We have the same face,"  a voice echoed in the distance.  
  
The party turned their attention to the office entrance and a muted silence fell upon the room.  
  
A wave of panic washed over Connor as he stood abruptly, staring down the fine-pressed and suited image of his brother who entered the room with a graceful stride. "Hello, Connor. I must admit, I had no idea after all that searching I'd find you somewhere like this."  
  
Connor swallowed. "...Hello, Nines."   
  
Hank looked between the two brothers. The resemblance was striking. Twins. "Holy shit," Hank whispered. 


	7. I'm Not A Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Connor fight and Connor goes ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Bonasaai for providing me with DeadForest's song "Whiff" as ambience while I wrote this chapter. 
> 
> Thank you for all the comments. Again, they are what keep me writing because they're very encouraging and inspiring. I appreciate everyone who has taken the time to leave me such kind words. 
> 
> No, this story isn't done. Trust me... it's gonna burn fucking fast though. I think maybe two to four more chapters tops. 
> 
> The poetry in the beginning of specific chapters DOES matter btw. 
> 
> Wanna get a punch in the feels? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2pXIhArWK4

_"Take me back to the ocean_   
_the scenery omnipotent yet ever changing_   
_the claimer and reminder of life gone and lived_   
_my romance gliding to the rhythm-- the cold air"_

  
  
  
"So when were you going to tell me you have a brother?"

Connor sighed, hanging up his jacket on the coat rack and pushing past Hank to let Sumo outside in the yard. "I wasn't. It wasn't important."

Hank frowned. "Sure seemed important at the party. I thought I was going to bring the buzz kill, but an evil twin sort of wins the Oscar for that one."

"He's not evil, he's just...," Connor furrowed his brow trying to find the right words, "... he's serious."

"You're serious," Hank chided.

"I," Connor began indignantly, "am a delight. Can we stop talking about the elephant in the room?"

Hank laughed, finally taking the liberty to strip his own jacket off. "Jesus, Connor, are you calling me fat?"

Connor rolled his eyes and retreated to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Hank noted the sensitivity around the issue and decided that a beer was the best remedy for drama he didn't want to be a part of. Hank let Sumo back inside on the way to the kitchen and ruffled the dog's jowls before popping the lid off his drink. He guzzled the piss poor shit like it was water. Cheap booze... that was what he got for letting Connor grocery shop. He supposed he did prefer to not have an itching in his lungs all day; he'd have to thank Connor for budgeting the utilities and getting the heat turned back on in the house and not letting Hank consequentially die from pnemonia.

Time to be a detective. Hank sat down at the kitchen table, unbuttoning his disgustingly bright shirt a bit. He thought about Connor's reaction to his brother at the party. Nines; An almost identical twin if he weren't a few inches taller than Connor and didn't have bright, blue eyes. Connor was a little smaller in stature, and Hank reminded himself that Connor's eyes were a deep, soft, rich, beautiful brown....

The _fuck_ was that?

Hank took another chug of his beer. Focus. When Connor's eyes met Nine's, he looked-... no, not terrified. It was more like he had just been caught doing something bad, and he wasn't about to be chastised as much as be condescended to. Their interaction was less than your typical, long-lost sibling howdy-do. It was definitely distant and distrustful, and Connor was as pale as a ghost when he practically begged Hank to take them home.

But why?

  
It was then that he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Hank shuffled to pull it out, confused by the unfamiliar number. So like any rational person in that day in age, he sent the call to voicemail and set the phone on the table. Within ten seconds, the same number called again. Hank glared at the phone then repeated the same song and dance and sent the call to voicemail. He watched the phone. Three times definitely meant the call mattered.... He was almost relieved when it didn't ring again for thirty seconds, and Hank finally, begrudingly, picked up the phone. "Must be urgent to ring three times. Who's this?"

"Good evening, Lieutenant Anderson. This is Nines Cyblif from the DPD. I retrieved your number from Captain Fowler. I apologize for calling so late and so suddenly, but I was wondering if you are familiar where by brother Connor is taking residence? I saw him leave with you."  
  
Hank paused. "I'm not at liberty to share that. If he hasn't told you on his own, I'm assuming he doesn't want you to know." The call was quiet for a moment. Hank almost thought Nines had hung up if his phone didn't say it was still active. Hank pushed another 'hello?'

"My apologies. I'm just trying to think how to phrase my next question."  
  
"Look," Hank set his beer down, "I'm not going to tell you anything about Connor. I could pass something along to him, but that's it."  
  
"No, I understand. Allow me a moment to explain myself." The line was quiet again. The dramatic pauses definitely cued Hank in that Connor and Nines were related. Nines finally spoke up. "Connor was recently a patient in Detroit Mercy Hospital. He was there because he attempted suicide by overdose in our shared apartment and I called the hospital. I made an executive decision that Connor needed treatment. He was there for about a month, but then they suddenly discharged him after he demonstrated his supposed wellness. Connor left the hospital before I could pick him up, and I haven't seen him since."  
  
Hank swallowed. Well God damn....   
  
Nines continued. "That was about three months ago. After that, he managed to get back to our apartment before me and steal an assortment of things which included a few expensive electronics and my credit card."  
  
Hank groaned. God dammit, Connor. "So you're asking me to arrest him for theft?"  
  
"No, far from that." Hank was a bit surprised. "In fact I kept the credit card active. I've been putting enough on it each month to ensure he has some money, and I've been tracing his purchases in hopes of pin pointing his location." Hank thought about the first time Connor went out to get 'groceries.' Now he understood where he got the funds, and why he decided to shop so far away from Hank's house. Nines voice cracked a bit on the other end of the call. "Obviously I'm _worried_ about him."  
  
Hank scratched his beard in thought. Obviously the treatment didn't work. Connor was still fighting with his suicidal thoughts, but there was no way for Nines to know that. Why would Connor avoid his brother? There had to be a reason, right? "How do you know he's not just ghosting you and he's totally fine now?"  
  
"Connor has never been fine."   
  
It was Hank's turn to leave Nines in silence. He considered those words, and they had a weight coming from someone who knew Connor for their entire lives. "What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
Nines sighed. "Is Connor living with you, Lieutenant?" Hank only had time to register the trap; if he answered yes he could be endangering Connor, but if he didn't answer then the answer was obviously yes. The delay to consider these options registered as a 'didn't answer,' which prompted Nine's final words of the call before hanging up. "Please take care of him. I'm a phone call away when you can't deal with him anymore."  
  
Click.  
  
  
Hank sat in silence for a while. He finished off his beer, staring into the dark of the kitchen. He barely noticed when Connor came and stood by the table. Connor had changed out of the "ugly" shirt and into a T-shirt and shorts, of course. Hank had yet to care about his own shit knowing the things he now knew about the guy sharing the space under his roof.  
  
Connor broke the silence. "How'd he get your number?"  
  
Hank groaned. He leaned his elbows on the table and rested his face in his hands. "Fowler gave him my cell."  
  
"What did he tell you?"  
  
"A whole lot of nothin'." Hank stood up, stripping out of his too bright shirt as he walked. "I'm going to bed."  
  
"Hank," Connor persisted, following close on the older man's heels. "I have the right to know."  
  
"What and I didn't?" Hank snapped as he spun around. He threw his shirt on the couch and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jesus, Connor. I knew you had problems, but I didn't know you were some Funny Farm fugitive who steals from his own family."  
  
Connor frowned, clutching the folds of his shirt and holding his ground. "I'm not a 'fugitive' as you put it. I was evaluated and legally discharged. And I don't steal from my family, I took my own things and left."  
  
"Is that so?" Hank growled, taking a step towards Connor who refused to back down at the larger man's intimidating presence. "So a homeless guy has his own credit card he fills every month? I don't fucking think so. Don't fucking lie to me, Connor. Not after everything I've done for you."  
  
"Who asked you to do anything?!" Connor spat, pushing Hank out of his space. "You dragged me here! You insisted that I stay with you until I got myself sorted and I'm doing exactly what you asked me to do and then some! I take care of Sumo, I budget your finances, I cook, I clean, I give you a portion of my paycheck for rent! I didn't ask for any of this!"  
  
"It was either this or do exactly what your brother did and have you locked up in the mental hospital, Connor!" Connor stared in shock at Hank. Something inside of Connor seemed to break in that moment, but Hank didn't think to take tender care of the shards but rather grew angry with how deeply the broken glass cut him. "Maybe that's what I should have done. I should have done that than play these fucked up mind games you seem to play with everyone who seems to give a shit about you."   
  
Connor didn't budge. He was frozen like a deer in headlights. Hank didn't give himself time to pity Connor before trying once again to go to bed. The softest voice stopped him as Connor spoke weakly, "Are you talking about me, or are you talking about your wife?"  
  
Hank growled low. "You have no right."  
  
"Is that what I am to you, Hank? Am I just an excuse to try to save someone who's already dead?"  
  
"Connor!" Hank barked, turning back and hoisting Connor forward by his collar. "You better shut that fucking mouth now before I beat it off your face."   
  
"Am I just a ghost to you?! Someone who is already dead?! Is that why you gave me a dead kid's room to sleep in and a dead woman's coat to wear?!" Connor pushed himself out of Hank's grip and stormed over to the coat rack. He ripped the black coat off of it and chucked it as hard as he could at Hank, a ferocity in his eyes unlike anything Hank had ever seen. "I am not your wife! I am me! I am my own basket case, I don't need to adopt someone else's problems just so that you can soften your own regrets."  
  
Hank was both furious and exhausted. He ran a stressed hand through his hair in an attempt to find his calm. Sumo whined in the corner and Hank finally sighed. "Fine. Okay, Connor. You win. If you want to go, then go. I'm not going to stop you."  
  
Connor clenched his fists. "That's it?"  
  
"That's it. I'm tired."   
  
Neither party moved. Connor began to tremble where he stood.   
  
Hank didn't stick around long enough to pity it. He trudged down the hallway and slammed his bedroom door behind him.   
  
The next morning Connor was gone, and so was Hank's guitar. Hank tried to ignore it. He went to work as usual over the next couple of weeks, awkwardly side stepping Nines and avoiding conversation with him. He wanted to ask Nines if Connor went back to Nines' apartment, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. In fact, he struggled to even face Nines. Not only because he felt like he failed the more mentally stable of the twins, but because every time he looked at Nines' face, all he saw was Connor.  
  
Connor began to haunt him.   
  
Connor's presence reflected in how cold the house got. It showed in how dirty the house became, and how dirty Sumo's coat started to become. There was no more tinkering of toy piano keys, or strumming of guitar strings. Their favorite crime show lost all of its enjoyment. Hank's beer bottles began to pile again.  It was only then that Hank realized that in the span of a month, Connor's face was a memory that shined around every corner of the happier parts of Hank's current life. Hank had finally taken steps out of the past, and then pushed Connor right back into his own. He felt like such a louse.   
  
Driving home one evening, the snow melting ever so much on the roads, he saw Connor's ghost sitting on the bridge he often took to get home late at night. The ghost was beautiful, strumming an old guitar. Puffs of warm breath danced from his lips as he sang into the night facing out over the river, muted by the blast of Hank's radio.  
It hit Hank like a truck that what he saw wasn't just another ghost. It was Connor.  
  
Like an action movie star, Hank slammed on the breaks and squealed his wheels into reverse back onto the bridge. He unloaded himself from the car and shouted Connor's name across the bridge, but it was as though he were shouting over the precipice of two worlds that couldn't touch, and all was lost in the sound of nothing. Fuck if Hank wasn't going to try, and he pushed through his numbing shock towards Connor until he could finally hear that angelic voice, that he admitted to missing, singing...  
  
...it wasn't "You Are My Sunshine."   
  
  
Hank listened, the strumming of the guitar strings shook him to his core, and Connor's soft voice left him in shivers.   
Connor crooned, **" _You don't know how long I was have wanted to touch your lips and hold you tight. You don't know how long I have waited, and I was going to tell you tonight. But the secret is still my own, and my love for you is still unknown, alone...._ "**  
  
Hank stood in the middle of the bridge's road. He was captivated as that disastrous cloud of antique mystery as it turned where it sat, staring Hank down as he corrected his hand placement a bit. He took a cold breath, brushing his healthy fingers on the guitar strings again as he continued. " _ **Until now, I've always got by on my own. I never really cared until I met you. And now it chills me to the bone. How do I get you alone...?**_ " Connor's lip trembled a bit as let out another, softer, " ** _How do I get you alone?_** "   
  
Hank saw the redness in Connor's eyes, and he walked to him. He grabbed Connor by the shoulders and pushed the guitar out of the way, pulling the smaller man into a tight hug as Connor sank into the embrace with and began a muffled sobbing into Hank's chest. Hank brushed the back of Connor's hair, quietly hushing him as he whispered repeated "I'm sorry"s into Connor's ear.   
  
They went home. Their home. Hank let Connor crawl into his bed, and he gently brushed the poor man's hair until he finally fell asleep. Hank thought that Connor smelled of dirt and cold.... He knew Connor deserved to smell clean and warm. He knew that he was never going to understand why his wife killed herself, especially not through Connor.  
  
But he knew one thing; he was going to try to understand Connor enough to keep Connor alive.  
  
It wasn't going to be for himself, or his deceased loved ones.  
  
It was going to be for Connor, because Connor wasn't dead yet, and he deserved to be treated as such. 


	8. My Mother is a Lush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor is starting to feel better. Just in time for issues with mom to pop up and Hank exploit it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, guys. Here's the next chapter.  
> I've been really sick. Like REALLY sick. Which of course messed with all faucets of my life and therefore consumed my energy to fix.... but I'm back on my feet. Thank you for staying so loyal and wonderful and patient.

"He's been doing pretty well actually. We found him a hobby."

"Explain."

Hank took another gulp of his whisky, gesturing for the bartender to top him off. "He likes music. No secret there. Started playing guitar at libraries to entertain kids. Moved up to pianos at a reception. Did some bar karaoke," Hank laughed. "Now the kid is makin' money doing gigs. Seems happy enough."

Nines was thoughtful. He stared down at his drink, circling his finger along the rim. "I would like to see him play."

"No offense, but I don't think he's ready to see you yet." Hank sighed. "Shitty as it is though. You'd think he'd let bygones be bygones, it's been months. He sure as hell can hold a grudge."

"I deserve it," Nines lamented with a troubled exhale. "Our history extends beyond me having him institutionalized. People say blood runs thicker than water, so I can only imagine how disgusting bad blood feels." Nines threw back his shot.

Hank raised an eyebrow. "That's a little heavy handed, don'tcha think?"

"No." Nines sighed. "Connor has always been defective as far as our family is concerned. Less and less was expected of him growing up. As far as our mother was concerned, I was the shinier, more hardworking and more obedient child. Honestly I always thought that Connor was a failure, but I was conditioned to think that way. As an adult, I know better." Nines leaned down, resting his head in his arm and watching as Jimmy poured him another shot. "Connor was better in that respect. He realized how troubling our mother's desires of us was much sooner, but it was still before he understood that it was acceptable. He was always ahead of me in that respect. In so many ways I simply couldn't keep up."

Hank stared at Nines wearily. This was new information. It was information he should have expected, but simply wasn't expecting. He figured maybe there was something in Connor's past that made him the way he was. A neglectful helicopter parent surely could be high up on the list. Yet something itched into him that... past trauma or past neglect _wasn't it_. Connor had told Hank himself the first night he took residence in his home. ' _It's different than depression induced suicide.'_ Hank was still struggling to understand what that meant. He was struggling to struggle. He was struggling to be... _something_ in Connor's life, or what was left of it as far as Connor could be concerned. Hank patted Nines' back and groaned. "Well, you didn't ask me here to talk about Connor. You wanted to talk about dipshit."  
  
"Gavin," Nines corrected.  
  
"That's what I said."   
  
Nines rolled his head over to look at Hank. "I've grown fond of him since we began working together."  
  
Hank scoffed. "Can't see why. Only a masochist would want that."  
  
"Sadist," Nines _corrected.  
  
_ Hank made an indescribable face before shooting back his whiskey again and gritting his teeth at the relieving sharpness that clawed down his throat. After all, that image was an awful lot to swallow. "Look, I don't need to know about what gets you off, much less with Detective FuckHead."   
  
"Detective Reed," Nines compromised.  
  
"Same thing. Look," Hank put both his hands on the table and groaned, "if you really want a relationship with him, then you've got to be upfront. He's not exactly the most emotionally intuitive person, if you haven't been able to tell so far. He's not easily charmed either, so just be blunt and you'll have the best of luck." Hank waved his hand dismissively. "I'm not good with relationship advice."   
  
"That's odd," Nines sat up straight and fixed his tie. "I suppose it works in your household then."  
  
Hank raised a skeptical brow. "How so?"  
  
"With Connor and all. You've been occupying the same space for several months, so I imagine you have had to have the 'talk' in order to protect individual privacy. Connor doesn't really need it to be reinforced though."   
  
Hank groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Are you talking about when we bring someone over to fuck?"  
  
Nines thought for a moment, processing the bluntness of the statement. "I believe so, yes."   
  
"No," Hank admitted. "No, we haven't really needed to have that talk. I'm too old and busy to give a shit. If I really wanted to fuck someone I'd just do it in the car or something. Come and go, no need to bring them into my _house._ " But now that he thought about it... Connor was a full grown man. Surely he had needs, but Hank never had a situation where Connor brought someone home for sex. Hell, he never even saw Connor sleep with the door closed, so when did he find time to masturbate? Did he even know what Connor's type was? Often when they watched TV together, Hank would make a lewd comment here and there about an actress, just sort of shooting the shit, but Connor never really added to those conversations in the same way. It was always like 'yes she is very beautiful' or 'I suppose she's attractive.'  
Hank paused. A realization hit him suddenly and he turned to Nines with all seriousness. "Is Connor gay?"  
  
Nines stared back in surprised silence. "...No. I don't believe he is."  
  
Hank nodded thoughtfully, looking back down at his drink. "So he's straight."  
  
"I would ask him yourself," Nines declared as he dropped some cash on the counter and retrieved his coat from the chair, slipping it on. "You two will eventually need to have some variation of that talk anyway. Regardless, I will take your advice about Gavin and I will see you in about a week. I hope you have a good vacation, Lieutenant."  
  
Hank smiled. Nines and Connor were so different, but sometimes so similar. "Good luck. When he busts your balls, make sure to cry. It'll terrify him."   
  
Hank took a cab home. When it pulled into the driveway he wanted to say he was surprised to see what he saw, but he wasn't. Sumo was bounding around the front yard, probably much to his neighbors' displeasure, while Connor laid sprawled out in the (fairly melted) snow, bundled in his new winter clothing; a mens' black peacoat, a plaid scarf and a black winter's hat. Connor stared blankly at the dark sky, raising a mittened hand once to acknowledge Hank's presence before letting flop back down.  
  
Hank let out a breath and smiled fondly, paying the cab off and shoving his hands in his pockets. He watched Connor for a moment in silence as the cab drove away down the melting road that welcomed Spring as Winter sauntered down the pavement of the dull, suburban neighborhood. Yet somehow, when Connor did things like this, he made the place seem magical and light. So Hank quietly walked over to Connor's spot, and with a grumbling grunt he managed to plop down and lay in the snow next to Connor, his gray hair mingling with the icy bundles. "What are we thinking about tonight?"  
  
Connor shrugged, his scarf hiding most of his face.  
  
Hank acknowledged the silence complacently, staring up at the stars. This time of year, the overcast wasn't so bad so there wasn't so much light pollution. You could see the lights of the cosmos here and there, speckling the sky in a similar way Connor's many freckles and beauty marks speckled his skin. Hank thought that it was nice to see Connor healing so well; he had expected some scarring from the frost bite in months past, but Connor recovered remarkably well. Connor finally broke the silence. "I'm thinking about contacting my mom."  
  
"Yeah?" Hank supposed twins sort of shared a link. If Nines was thinking about their mom, he guessed it wasn't too weird that Connor might be too.   
  
"I'm thinking about having her see my next performance. I'm unsure though."  
  
"You've been practicing hard. If she's any kind of parent, I'm sure she'll love it."  
  
Connor laughed faintly. "One would think...."  
  
"Is your mom really that much of a beat down on you?"  
  
Connor shrugged. "My mom had high expectations when she adopted us. I simply couldn't meet her requirements."  
  
"Well that's bullshit. You seem like a good kid, I can't figure you for ever being the difficult type."  
  
"What about your mom?"  
  
"My mom?" Hank laughed. "She was a wasted lush most of the time. Dad was a no-show. I turned out okay." This made Connor laugh, prompting Hank to swing a soft hand to hit Connor's chest. "But in all seriousness, Con, I think it might be good for you to show her what you can do. Maybe if she sees just how good you are she'll come around. No harm in trying."  
  
"I suppose." They were quiet again for a while, admiring the quiet of the night before Connor spoke once more. "Sometimes I feel like I was supposed to be doing something bigger than what I'm doing. It's as if I was born to do something crazy, like fight evil people or lead some giant revolution. But I'm so hopelessly human, and most of the time I can't seem to even do that correctly. I feel more like an android. I used to blindly follow orders, and when I started thinking for myself, I was seen as some sort of deviant and pushed away. I wanted so badly to not be like the people my mother truly didn't want me to be..., but in so many ways it felt like she was setting me up to fail."  
  
Hank nodded. It took him a moment to process, but all he could answer was "that's fucked up."  
  
"A little bit."  
  
Hank rose to his feet and gestured to pull Connor up, which the younger man happily obliged. They went inside and took off their winter garments. Sumo happily followed in suit, and was welcomed in with a big bowl of home-made food, ground and designed by Connor himself. Connor had started preparing something for dinner, and entered the kitchen to resume doing so while Hank popped open a beer and offering to help Connor here and there, even though he expected the same answer every time which was always along the lines of "no, it's ok, it's the least I can do."  
  
Connor seemed happy. Hank truly thought that. Connor seemed to be healthier and more rounded. Connor seemed to be growing beyond his limitations and self-expectations, but Hank couldn't shake that there was still something deep inside of Connor that ached. Something ran in Connor's blood that damned him as beyond saving, and Hank was so desperate to figure it out.... Because Connor was right. Connor wasn't like the rest of humanity. He was somehow something more amazing and fragile at the same time, that people seemed to like to use but never appreciate or respect. Perhaps that's why he felt like an android. He lacked so much the ability to connect to others that life was cold and mechanical... and so Connor couldn't-...  
  
he ... couldn't....  
  
he couldn't what?  
  
  
Hank didn't know. He hadn't pieced that together yet.   
  
"Hey, Con." Hank called.  
  
Connor perked up, turning around with those curious eyes.  
  
"How would you like to visit Maine?"  
  
Connor cocked his head to the side curiously. "I suppose I would like it. I've never been before. Why do you ask?"  
  
Hank scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Well, I was thinking of using my vacation time to visit. Figured you could come with if you want. This season is good because there's almost no tourists, but it's not so cold that we can't visit the ocean or something-"  
  
A crash broke Hank's train of thought. Connor had dropped the plate he was holding, causing it to shatter on the floor. Hank jumped to his feet, "Jesus, Connor!"  
  
"I'm sorry!" Connor practically yelled, immediately dropping to the floor and rushing to pick up the pieces of broken glass. "I'll clean it up just don't..."  
  
Hank rushed over, "Fuck, I don't care about that! Are you ok?!"  
  
Connor seemed somewhat suspended in reality. "I'm ok," he said somewhat breathlessly. "I'm ok, yes."  
  
"Are you hurt?"  
  
"I'm ok," he repeated, blinking down at the glass. "I'm sorry I broke your plate, please don't be angry."  
  
Hank was in awe. What? Angry? "Why would I be angry?"  
  
"Because I-..."  
  
"Connor, this is just... _stuff_. It doesn't matter." Connor didn't seem entirely convinced. Hank wondered if he had upset Connor with his question. Maybe it was a bold suggestion, but still. "Look, look, Connor." Hank stood up and pulled another plate from the cabinet. "See? Just stuff," he continued before smashing the plate down on the floor a little ways away.   
  
Connor still seemed still and disturbed. Hank grabbed another plate and put it in Connor's hands. "Break it."  
  
"What?" Connor blanched.  
  
"Just break it. C'mon."   
  
Connor did what he was told. He hesitantly clinked the plate against the floor, barely chipping it. Hank grabbed the plate through Connor's hands and helped him, insisting with a mighty, "with feeling!" before helping Connor smash it down with a crack.   
  
It broke from Connor's hands, and Connor blinked up towards Hank.   
  
Hank grinned. "How'd that feel?"  
  
"It felt... _good_."   
  
"Then break another." Hank grabbed a cup from the counter and handed it to Connor.  
  
Connor was hesitant at first, but with a gentle pat from Hank he threw the cup across the kitchen and against the wall. It shattered into bits with a smash, prompting Connor to look to Hank for assurance which Hank didn't hesitate to supply. Hank rose, pulling out a bottle of ketchup. He tossed it down to Connor before grabbing the mustard.   
  
Hank promptly squeezed the mustard bottle hard, shooting it onto Connor's face. Connor sputtered, rising to the challenge eagerly and shooting the ketchup at Hank in protest. Hank hid behind the fridge door, laughing... both laughing. Both laughing like kids with nothing to worry about.  
  
For a about fifteen minutes of play, there was nothing in the world that could hurt them. And as they cleaned the splatters of red and yellow from the walls and ceiling, and picked the pieces of broken glass off the floor, they felt a sense of mutual catharsis. Neither had ever heard either party laugh so much, and laugh so hard. Hank couldn't help but think Connor had a beautiful smile, and he wanted to see more of it. He thought that the world deserved to see more of it. After each party showered, Connor tried brushing the remainder of his giggles out of Sumo's fur.   
  
Hank watched fondly from the couch. "I don't think I've ever seen you laugh so much."   
  
Connor chuckled. "Plato said that 'one could discover more from another person in an hour of play than in a lifetime.'"  
  
"I've been meaning to ask, but why do you quote philosophers so much?"  
  
Just like that, Hank regretted his question. The light left Connor's eyes. The warmth left his cheeks, and his brush stroke through Sumo's fur went limp. Connor answered flatly, "Because they're dead, and I think they're worth remembering, no matter how absurd."   
  
Hank shook his head. "You have a gig tomorrow night. I'm serious. After you play, we'll hop on a plane to Maine. Spend a few days beach side and come home."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Hank was surprised. "What do you mean 'why?'"  
  
"Why invite me?" Connor turned, brown eyes latching onto Hank. Again... just like when they first met, they seemed almost... inhuman. Blank and endless, but full of so much information and dread.  
  
"You said you liked the ocean but had only seen it one time. You won't tell me your birthday so... think of it as a birthday present."  
  
They were back. Connor's eyes were full of emotion again. In fact, his cheeks even seemed flushed. He turned back to Sumo, resuming to brush the needy dog. "Okay," he replied quietly.  
  
Hank smiled. He roused from the couch and sat down at his computer, pulling up some plane tickets.   
This wasn't before taking a stab at contacting a certain mother who absolutely needed to hear her son perform... at least once. It would be a great surprise, followed by a quick outing to Maine by night. It would be an amazing experience for Connor.  
  
Connor retired for the evening. He pulled some lyrics out from under his sheet and pulled over Hank's guitar, strumming as he hummed along the lyrics in his head. He had never played an original piece before. His stomach was getting butterflies just thinking about it. He had been working on the lyrics for months..., and after draining his emotions from the last few months dry, he finally felt comfortable enough to perform it. He thought... perhaps Hank would like. Perhaps Hank would be proud of his new found success and courage. 

T _ake me back to the ocean_  
 _where my life hangs on cliff sides_  
 _where my life lost moves with the waves_  
 _and the white ocean foam ripples vibrancy_  
  
_Take me back to the ocean_  
 _where love once known still remains_  
 _the memories flooding in and out_  
 _in cold, suspended animation_  
  
_Take me back to the ocean_  
 _drag me under the dancing blue_  
 _fill my lungs with the taste of salt_  
 _the smells of freezing life and death and mineral hands_  
  
_Take me back to the ocean_  
 _the scenery omnipotent yet ever changing_  
 _the claimer and reminder of life gone and lived_  
 _my romance gliding to the rhythm-- the cold air_  
  
_Take me back to the ocean_  
 _the drowning deep lifts like wings_  
 _to fall for eternity into the heavy darkness_  
 _lungs crushed as shoreline sets like the sun_  
  
_Take me back to the ocean_  
 _where my heart is claimed_  
 _pale and weightless and gone_  
 _like a dream among the sunken angels_  
  
 _Take me back to the ocean_  
 _for this is where I desire_  
 _to lay my mind to rest_  
 __ **and be gone from this world without any regrets....**


	9. It's Okay to be Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor has a gig and Hank has a case of the feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate the holidays, fuck me running....
> 
> Anyway I think there is only about 3 chapters left but get your tissues ready because shit is going to ht the fan next chapter and it's gonna hit HARD. Like if I don't ruin your holiday season then I failed this story.

"Please, Hank...."  
  
His voice was low, staggered by anticipation and ragged breaths.  
  
"...Hank, touch me more...."  
  
The pads of Hank's fingers barely brushed against the marred skin of the man beneath him.... They delicately traced risen scar after scar, nicked so precisely between rib cages. Connor shuddered to the touch, arching towards Hank's fingers, but was subdued by the leather cuffs on his hands and leather belt across his waist.   
  
Connor's eyes filled with desperation. His head craned languidly to the side as he seductively spread his legs wider; their only restraint was Hank's body kneeling dominantly between them.   
  
Hank let out uneven breaths. "Where do you want me to touch you, Connor?"  
  
Connor whined, side glancing at Hank from beneath his messed bangs. The drool dripping from his mouth had a certain blueness to its previous clarity. A spinning circle of light shined blue, then yellow, then blue on the right of Connor's forehead. Connor was shy. Hank chuckled, leaning down further and kissing Connor's neck, moving up and up and up until he could brush his lips ever so faintly against the shell of Connor's velvety ear. "Come on, Connor.... What do you really want?" 

Hank suddenly gripped between Connor's legs, causing the shackled man to keen. He panted, blue dribbling from his eyes. Hank moved to kiss away the tears, the blue smearing his lips and beard like a watery paint. Connor was warm. "Take it out...," Connor whispered. "Take the whole thing out."  
  
Hank gave Connor one last kiss, nuzzling the man's head until he could lock his lips with the submissive form below.  
Hanks hands dragged across Connor's chest. They passively massaged as Hank groaned in response to Connor's needy noises underneath.   
They stopped at a small, circular, blue device that seemed mechanically inserted into Connor's chest. It pulsated, glowing a shimmering blue like crystal starlight. Hank skimmed his nails over it momentarily, simply feeling the warm pulse from inside, before his aggressively dug his fingers into Connor's flesh around it.  
  
Blue sputtered from the opening. Connor screamed and moaned, all mixed together, as Hank ripped the machine part from his chest. Wires snapped and popped as the pump tore from its socket. Its light and pulse quickly began to fade as Connor lay still and hollow on the bed, blue blood pouring from the empty cavity in his chest. Hank stared at the heart for a moment more... observing its qualities. Small, unassuming, fragile... but beautiful.   
  
So, he crushed it.   
  
It shattered in his palm, a pop of blue bursting from between his fingers and flowing down his arm. It dotted Connor's chest and belly.   
  
The light on Connor's head spun red.  
  
Hank leaned down. He kissed Connor's chin, the smaller man's eyes lifeless. "Are you dead yet?"  
  
The light on Connor's head went dark.  
  
Hank breathed. "...Finally."   
  
Hank shot up from his bed in a cold sweat. He gripped at his chest, frantically looking around the room he was in. He checked the time: 4:00am. He checked the spot next to him in his bed: No Connor. Hank rested his head in his hands. "What the fuck was that? What the fuck...," he growled, rubbing the water and panic from his eyes. He immediately got out of bed and snuck over to Connor's room. With a quiet creak, he silently peaked into the dark of the room. He could see Connor's hand limp over the side of the bed, but he couldn't see Connor's face past the massive St. Bernard that had recently convinced itself it was a lapdog.   
Hank tip toed into the room. He peeked over Sumo to see Connor's face, and was reliever to see Connor's mouth moving slightly as he breathed in and out peacefully....  
  
With no spinning light on his head.   
  
Hank quietly left the room, but once in the hallway he couldn't do anything but fall to the floor leaning against the wall. Was it stress? Was it paranoia? What causes a nightmare like that? It's not like he could talk to anyone about it, there were too many... intimate details.   
Hank felt disgusting.   
Nothing a cold shower couldn't fix.   
  
As the morning resumed in its normal clarity, Connor finally rose from his sleep. The morning went on as it did most days; Sumo got a walk, Hank and Connor ate breakfast, they each occupied various personal spaces to groom and otherwise prepare for the day. Hank thought that Connor seemed somewhat chipper. Excited even. "Are you excited about tonight?"  
  
"A little anxious also," Connor admitted between bites of his routine breakfast of sliced fruit.   
  
Hank chuckled as he raised his mug of coffee to his lips, eyes briefly glancing over the morning paper before he pressed on. "I don't think you have anything to be nervous about, Con. If you've made it this far, it's not like it's for no reason."  
  
"It's not that," Connor started. He sat back in his chair and stared out the window with forlorn as he chewed on a slice of watermelon. Hank had become used to Connor's moments of thoughtful silence before continuing conversation. "This is the first instance you will see me perform an original piece."  
  
Hank raised a curious brow. "What, like my input matters?"  
  
"It's everything."  
  
Connor and Hank stared each other down. Again, Hank couldn't make heads or tails with what he was staring at... what emotional display there seemed to be hiding in the younger man's eyes. "I already thought you were talented. I'm sure it's going to be great."  
  
Comfortable silence fell on the kitchen once again. Each individual finished their meal. Connor began to retreat to his room, presumably to practice more. Or at least that was what Hank assumed after hearing the door shut with a click; Connor never shut his door otherwise. Who knew when the kid found time to masturbate....  
  
On the subject...  
  
Hank's mind wandered to his nightmare. It was fleeting-- more just a speculation of sexuality. He hadn't really considered himself at all attracted to Connor in a sexual way, so it was difficult making heads or tails of it. He felt disgusting admitting it, but before the dream became all killer psycho sci-fi, Dream Connor's writhing was pretty sexy-... wait. Wait no...  
  
_Was_  he attracted to Connor?   
  
That's gross. You're a gross guy, Hank thought to himself. You brought this mentally sick man into your home, he's finally getting healthier, and you're having wet dreams about him like some sort of high school teenager. Gross. Stop being gross. Hank abruptly rose from his chair and started down the hallway towards Connor's room. No, stop, you gross person. You don't need to know about Connor's preferences, there's nothing to gain from it other than being a nosy pervert. Stop. Don't you dare knock on that door. He's busy. He's got a big show tonight and you're going to stress him ou-... You did it. I can't believe you did that, you actually knocked on his door. What are you going to do when he answers it? Lie?  
  
Connor opened the door, his head cocked to the side. "Is something wrong, Hank?"  
  
Lie. Lie through your gross teeth. "I was just sort of curious," Hank began sheepishly, "since you've been here for so long and all..., but are you interested in dating?" Dammit.   
  
Connor blinked, processing the question before replying with a quiet and simple, "Dating you?"   
  
"What?! No, no, I just mean..., like I've never seen you talk about anyone romantically or take interest in anyone. I figured if you... y'know, wanted to ever start bringing someone home then we ought to set some ground rules, right? Thin walls and all." Smooth.  
  
"I don't think you need to worry about that," Connor replied promptly.  
  
What? "What? Why not? Come on, even a stiff like you has got to want to let off steam sometimes."  
  
Connor's eyes shifted. He glanced to the side, thoughtful and unsure. Hank immediately felt guilt fester in his gut for prying, but before he could take the line of questioning back, Connor simply stated "it's difficult to explain."  
  
"No need, I shouldn't have been so nosy. You don't have to explain anything to me," Hank reassured.   
  
Heturned to leave-- he wanted out of that conversation so badly, but was interrupted by Connor's hand lacing around his arm. He turned his head, giving Connor a questioning look as the man boldly announced, "I'm demisexual. So..., I promise, it's not something you really need to worry about it. I'll tell you if I'm interesting in seeing anyone."  
  
Hank blanched. "You've lost me. D-sex-you-what?"  
  
Connor let go of Hank's arm, now awkwardly rubbing his own. "Demisexual. I-...," Connor huffed, glancing to the ground. Hank swore he saw the smallest glimpse of a blush. "I just have difficulty... 'performing' unless I'm emotionally and romantically attracted to someone. Lust is not something that comes easily for me."  
  
Hank was confused. "Isn't everyone kind of like that though?"  
  
"No," Connor began. "A lot of people can have casual sex or experience arousal regardless of their emotional intimacy with their partner. For me personally, without romantic and emotional attraction, I can barely even-..."  
  
"Get. It up?"  
  
Connor let out a long breath. "In blunt terms, yes."   
  
Hank nodded thoughtfully, considering this information. He had heard about a lot of open kinds of sexuality. This was a new one to him, and it wasn't his place to question the legitimacy of it. If that's how Connor felt, then Hank got his answer. "Fair enough," Hank smiled. "You haven't exactly had a lot of time for romance I guess."  
  
"No, I suppose not. I'm not really...," Connor turned his eyes up. His gaze fell heavily on Hank's, almost searchingly and if Hank wasn't so sure he was completely biased, he'd even categorize that stare as desire. Hank's heart flipped in his chest as Connor finished his thought with a soft, "...looking for someone to love anymore anyway."   
  
Hank swallowed and cleared his throat. "Well then. Thank you for uh... explaining that. You should continue to practice."  
  
Connor smiled and nodded, turning on his heel and returning to his room. The door shut once more with a click.  
  
What the fuck was that.  
  
When 6 o'clock rolled around, Connor was all but a statue. He went about dressing and preparing for the performance in a completely mechanical way, with an expression as stoic as a robot's. Hank practically caused the anxious artist to jump several feet in the air when he suddenly touched his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. "It's going to be great," Hank reassured with a soft smile.  
  
It was a smile Connor had begun to admire. When Hank smiled, there was something amazing that filled the room. It smelled like roses, tasted like a shot of scotch in a warm cup of coffee in winter. Hank's smile felt like frayed lace catching on hard working fingers-- a firm grip protecting all those fragile and small and mentoring all those bold and strong. Hank was the misery without the ache, the bullet without the bite, and the best kind of suicide. Hank was..., "Remarkable," Connor muttered.  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Remarkable. I want to be just as remarkable."  
  
Hank raised a brow. "As remarkable as what?"  
  
Connor shook his head and smiled. "I don't know myself, if I am being perfectly honest. Perhaps it is a software instability," Connor laughed.  
  
Hank scoffed, ruffling Connor's hair and grabbing his jacket. "You're not an android, Connor. I promise."  
  
Connor smiled again, this time brighter and lighter. "If you say so, Lieutenant. Do you mind driving?"  
  
Hank grinned, jingling his keys. "Planned on it. You're still not that great at stick. Tonight is not a night to risk accidents."  
  
"Agreed," Connor laughed.  
  
Hank stopped, door mid-opened. He glanced over his shoulder wearily. "You mean that?"  
  
Connor paused, the look of confusion on his face clear. Hank cleared his throat. "I mean the whole..., well...," he waved his hand in a general gesture, "I mean to say about not wanting anything to happen. To you."  
  
Oh, Connor thought. "I suppose I did not really think about what I was saying...."  
  
"Connor," Hank shut the door again with a disgruntled sigh. "Let me tell you something before we leave. And I'm not saying this to be a ball buster before your show or anything, but I feel like it needs to be said." Hank shoved his hands in his pockets, turning his gaze to the floor. Connor waited patiently, head tilted ever so slightly to the side as he stared at Hank with thoughtful eyes. Hank let out a long breath before admitting, "I suffered from suicidal thoughts. Back when shit hit the fan in my life and my depression was at its worse, I drank heavy. Like a lot heavier than I could ever do now. And I would play this game...," Hank paused. He rolled to and fro on his heels momentarily, juggling his thoughts. "I'd play Russian Roulette. Right there, at the kitchen table. Never knew which trigger pull would shoot the bullet, but it was sort of my way of letting fate decide if I'd live or die."  
  
Connor stared in silence. He clearly was at a loss for words, so Hank continued. "It got a little better over time. I'd play less and less. Sometimes I'd drink so much I'd be passed out on the floor before I could get to the gun. See, I was just so in love with my wife that when she took her life, it baffled me. She seemed happy. She was ambitious, smart, kind... y'know, all the things I'm not." Hank chuckled darkly. "And I don't think I've ever loved someone more than I loved my son Cole. He didn't deserve to die. He was," Hank turned his face to the door to hide his face from Connor, "he was a good kid. Such a good kid. He didn't deserve that. And I just couldn't cope."  
  
Connor let out a small noise. A sort of swallow of his emotion. "I'm so sorry, Hank."  
  
"I don't want you to be sorry," Hank breathed, turning his blood shot eyes back to Connor. Their glisten struck something painful in Connor's chest. Hank muttered, "I get it. I think I finally understand what it's like to be so in love with life that loving death can't be exempt. When life treats you so much like a stranger that death seems like some wonderful, comforting thing. But, Connor, sometimes it's just a matter of finding something that makes life feel less strange and less lonely than how cold death feels."  
  
Connor bit his lip, shoulders trembling a bit. "...Did you find something?"  
  
"I think I finally did."  
  
"...When did you stop playing Russian Roulette?"  
  
Hank paused. He grunted, mumbling his response. "Sometime between pulling you up from the side of that bridge and bringing you home to better yourself."  
  
Connor was speechless. He stood still, his mind a frenzied wave of static.  
  
Hank rubbed his eyes aggressively. "Shit, I don't usually get emotional like this. What I'm trying to say is that it's okay to admit that you're okay. If you feel okay. It won't cause something bad to happen. The bad is always going to be there, and life's little moments of okay are worth it." Hank laughed. "They were worth you anyway."  
  
Connor threw himself into Hank's arms, knocking the older man back a few steps with a soft grunt. Connor buried his face into Hank's chest, nuzzling his tears desperately into the warmth of Hank's embrace. Hank brushed a hand through Connor's hair. "Come on, you're getting snot all over me. I wanted to wear a clean shirt to this thing."  
  
The venue for the show was nice. A little rough and tough, but Connor was an up-and-coming musician, and he was only an opening act for a more popular local band. However, when Hank and Connor entered the building, Connor was still readily blind-sighted by eager fans. Hank wasn't surprised. Connor was such a pretty boy, it was no wonder girls would go ga-ga over his good looks and "puppy-boy" charm. They flocked to him with papers and shirts, begging for autographs or shyly commenting on his professionalism.   
  
Connor caught Hank's eyes over the throng of young ladies, and Hank simply smiled and gave him a wave. He wasn't about the hog Connor's limelight, this was his  ~~problem~~  glory to deal with. Rather, he took a seat up at the bar and ordered a drink. He waited, bantering with the young bartender a bit before a female voice chimed over his shoulder. "Lieutenant Anderson, I presume?"  
  
Hank turned on his bar stool and looked over the unfamiliar face. "Amanda Cyblif, I presume?"  
  
"Charmed, I'm sure," the woman smiled sardonically, hands elegantly folded at her waist. "May I take a seat?"  
  
"It's all your's," Hank smiled, patting the stool ned to him.   
  
Nobody knows they're making a mistake before they see the world burn around their choices. Connor would be no different.


	10. Jericho

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my best friend played this game for the first time, and it was easily the most hysterical thing I've ever seen. We streamed it, and I'm editing highlights. I'll probably link it here sometime to sort of gloss over the oncoming trauma *cough* Anyway, happy holidays, thank god it's over....

When was it...? The first time you thought to yourself, "hey, maybe the world would be better off if I were dead?" Perhaps it wasn't that. Perhaps it was something more like, "I don't want to die but I don't want to be alive anymore." Or maybe it was something along the lines of "it hurts so bad that I want it all to just turn off."  
  
What if it's none of those things?  
  
How do you go about wording that? How do you express that to others in such a way that guides their hands to your heart, and their ears to your words, and allows you to transcend the loneliness of being completely and truly alien amongst those who are supposed to be human? What was it like to be human? Was it a series of corrections and assumptions? Did it consist of a certain pattern of emotions in more or less appropriate circumstances? What was it like to not always constantly rationalize or dissect your own love, or your own hatred? What was it like to feel power and desire and lust without seeing it as an interaction between animals, and simply an act of human nature?  
You lose faith eventually. You become so scared of the end that you chase it. Rip the bandaid off. There was nothing here for something so inhuman to begin with....  
  
That's what it was like for Connor. And as he held Hank's old guitar in his lap, finely tuning its precious voice lulling against the quiet of the back stage dark, he thought maybe for a moment he had found it. He had always been drawn to music.... After all, his birth parents had been musicians. Connor and Nines both slept in their mother's womb while she sang lullabies of Shania Twain and David Bowie. Their first steps were sways to Heart, and their first words to the scratchy cassettes of Led Zeppelin. When your first toys were guitar straps and quilts made from recycled band T-shirts, music sort of just becomes part of your core. It's your language, your foundation for connection.... And for so long, Connor didn't have that.   
  
It wasn't as though Amanda disliked music. She simply was a practical minded mother. She thought piano classes and other musical languages were wonderful for child development, but not a solid lifetime goal or career pursuit. By the time Connor was in his mid-teens, his grounds for connection were stripped from him in exchange for business-minded practices and pursuits of logic. Granted, Connor was very talented at these topics, as he was with many things. He was the Captain of the debate team, and had outstanding scores in all of his advanced academics. However, isolation followed this path.... Without the strings of an instruments, Connor had no voice in which to connect to others. He fell out of practice.  
  
He regressed.   
  
Into what though, exactly?   
  
It wasn't as though he had an abnormal upbringing. He had everything he could ever want and need, especially after he and his brother were adopted by Amanda. She provided them the best life, the best nutrition, the best education..., and yet Connor grew to reject all of it. Unlike Nines, Connor suffered night terrors; he often would wet the bed only to be scolded for his accidents. Connor often felt interested in dissecting small bugs on picnic tables, ripping their wings off one by one and then crying about it. When questioned, he wasn't able to explain why he did it to begin with, but the grief and guilt that followed the action was instantaneous and extravagant. When he made a decision to become more obedient and complacent in junior high, he quickly fell out of character as if he had adopted a false persona.   
Connor didn't have much of a handle on his identity. Whenever he did... it was stripped away by his mother. Amanda's approval meant everything, and when everything Connor did that felt natural was disapproved... there really wasn't much left.  
  
His twenties were a mess of defiance and outcry. He dropped out of university and fell off the radar. He adopted a series of lovers, all in which left him unsatisfied and vice versa because he found sex to be hollow and animalistic. He watched as other people seemed to mingle with their flaws and pain and happiness, and life was made the most of. But he just... couldn't. He couldn't seem to do it, or to even do it right. His brother was constantly picking him off the ground when he inevitably failed any current goals he had set out on while he brother in turn perfected every task available to him. Everything was so organized and pre-designed and Connor just didn't fit. It didn't matter.  
  
Nothing mattered.   
  
But then there was Hank. There was this man who showed up in the middle of a snow storm, misted in the dazzling whirlwind of crystal and begging Connor (a mere stranger) not to end it all. Hank, a man with eyes more icy than the snow that held more life and hope than anyone he had ever met before; all in which was built on a foundation of pain and hopelessness but reborn like the ashes of a god damn phoenix and he was simply the most amazing and beautiful angel God could have sent to Connor in that moment. When Connor fell, and when he screamed as he dropped, Hank's hand was warm in his. When Connor begged to be released to death, Hank told him, "no, not yet."   
And Connor had to listen. Connor had to....  
Because Hank was the first familiar thing Connor had ever encountered in his entire life.   
  
For the first time in his 31 years of existence, Connor didn't feel misplaced.  
  
Maybe for the first time in at least 20 years, Connor didn't want to die.   
  
  
"That's a beautiful guitar you got there."  
  
A deep voice snapped Connor out of his train of thought, and he quickly snapped his gaze up to meet the heterochromia iridium green and blue of a man staring down at him. Connor fumbled over himself, a little shocked and embarrassed for staring at the handsome man's eyes and beautiful smile. "Oh! I uh- thank you. It's not mine though, it's a friend's."   
  
"I see," the man smiled before kneeling down. He leveled with Connor, grey and black trench coat splaying around him like a King's cape. "I feel as though I recognize you. Are you, by any chance, called Connor?"  
  
Connor tilted his head to the side curiously. "Yes, that is correct."  
  
"You match the description to the fine details. I've been hearing a lot about you the past few days." He held his hand out to shake, which Connor confusedly took and shook gingerly, all but fizzing in surprise when the handsome man introduced himself with a soft and thoughtful, "My name is Markus. It's really wonderful to meet you, Connor."  
  
Connor smiled, his eyes glowing with wonder as he realized just who he was talking to. "You're the lead vocalist for Jericho."   
  
"Indeed I am," Markus stood back up. "I've heard really wonderful things about you. I've never actually heard you play, but my band has and they've claimed you are quite the talented performer. It's an honor to have you open for us tonight."   
  
"The honor is all mine," Connor smiled. "Thank you for introducing yourself to me. You're just as kind as everyone says."  
  
"Ah, so we both live up to our reputations then."  
  
"Reputation?" Connor blanched. "Hardly, I'm just a small fish in a big pond. Just a cover artist."  
  
Markus laughed. "Jericho started out on covers, and it's nothing to be disrespected. Besides, I hear tell you are performing an original piece tonight, is that right?"  
  
Connor scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, biting his lip in thought before answering in a quiet, "it will be my first time."   
  
Markus smiled again, and Connor was entranced. This man was so gentle and soft spoken, but had such a demanding presence. While Connor was this fragile and disastrous cloud of naive and evanescent mystery, Markus was surrounded by a halo of strength and warmth that seemed to resonate sincerity of a different breed; it was almost holy. While Connor tried not to stare, Markus leaned down with a cup hand and whispered to Connor something he could barely believe. "Between you and me, Jericho is looking for a new member." Markus stood back up straight. "I've been wanting to focus on singing, so we are in the works for a new guitar-player. What do you think? If all goes well, would you be interested in joining something like Jericho?"   
  
Connor was short-circuiting. "What?"  
  
"Being our new guitarist," Markus laughed. "Of course North wants to see how you do tonight first, but the offer stands. If you do well, consider the invitation, will you?"  
  
Connor fumbled over himself a bit. "Uh-.. yes... yes, of course!"  
  
"Good to hear, Connor." Markus glanced down at his watch. "Well I've got to help Jericho unload. It was nice meeting you, Connor. Good luck out there."  
  
"Yeah, you too."  
  
Markus waved as he walked away, leaving the back stage to the EXIT door where a large truck parked and several individuals were scurrying around to lug out various instrument pieces. Connor caught the eyes of a blue-eyed blond man approaching Markus and seemingly asking him something inaudible with excited expectation.   
Connor couldn't believe it. Jericho.... A big band like Jericho wanted him, of all people? Was he dreaming? And all he had to do was perform well to impress one of the band members? Connor's heart was skipping in his chest. If this was really happening, then Jericho was the window to his future. Jericho was a safe place where he could pursue the career of his dreams with success; something he had been told over and over was impossible.   
  
Connor almost couldn't contain his excitement. It bubbled up inside of him, so long chased from years of swollen thoughts and feelings. He set the guitar to the side and sprinted from his seat. He needed to find Hank, he had to tell him the good news. He... he had to tell him everything. He had to ride this high to the end, even if it was irrational and explicitly built on the rush of good tidings. If he was going to join Jericho, he wanted Hank there beside him....  
  
Connor swiftly made his way to the front of the bar, looking around frantically for Hank, only to spot him in the most expected place. The older man was at the bar with a drink in his hand, watching the football game being broadcast overhead before it would inevitably be muted for the night life entertainment. Connor's smile was huge and bright, and Hank would be amiss if something almost psychic didn't suddenly pull his gaze across the crowd to see it glowing amongst the masses. Hank waved a confused hand, gesturing Connor over. Connor didn't hesitate; he pushed by people and moved faster than he had ever moved before, until he was standing before Hank almost out of breath.  
  
"Jesus, Connor," Hank laughed. "What in the world is going on, you look like you just won the fucking lottery of something."  
  
"Hank," Connor huffed, practically bouncing where he stood, "I was asked to sign with Jericho."  
  
Hank raised an eyebrow. "And that means?"  
  
"Jericho, Hank!" Connor grabbed Hank's hands and shook them. "They're the band playing tonight. They're the real deal, and they want me, Hank. They want me to sign with them later, can you believe it?!"   
  
Hank's face immediately lit up. "Oh my God-... Connor! That's incredible, congratulations! You're going to do what you've always wanted to do, not many people can say that. Far cry from where you were six months ago, I'm proud of you, kid."  
  
Connor's face rose with color. The praise made him feel warm. The acceptance of his dreams and his desires. The warm, hardworking hands in his grasp.... Connor rubbed a thumb gingerly over Hank's. "That's not all."  
  
Hank eyed his hand in Connor's curiously. The mood shifted quickly, and Hank felt something get caught in his throat. "Connor...?"  
  
"Hank," Connor's eyes rose to meet that steel blue gaze. "I love you."  
  
Hank absolutely froze. The world around them seemed to mute, and all Hank could hear was the thumping of his and Connor's hearts. "You what...?"  
  
"I'm in love with you, Hank. I've been in love with you....." Connor swallowed and averted his gaze downward. "And I can't tell how you feel about me. Perhaps it's wildly inappropriate to assume you feel the same, but if you would have me, I don't want to join Jericho." He breathed. "I want to stay with you, in that house together with Sumo. I love the life you've given me. I love the second chance you've created for me. But if you won't accept me, then... then I will go with Markus and tour with Jericho until life points me where I'm going next."  
  
Both were silent for a moment. Hank's face was stern, his hands stiff and hot. Connor continued. "I know it's cowardly to only tell you this now that I have an out, but my preference is to be with you. Of all of my dreams..., you're my new one. So-"  
  
"Go with Jericho."  
  
Connor looked up. Surprised and rejection mixed in his features, and Hank's heart hurt. He removed his hands from Connor's and moved them to Connor's shoulders. His tone was low, giving Connor shivers. "I accept your feelings, but I can't return them. I don't love you the same way so...," Hank nearly choked through his lies, "chase your dreams with Jericho, Connor. Ride life as far as it will take you, and take this opportunity." Hank smiled, patting Connor's shoulder and letting it go. "I'm so proud of you. I'm proud of everything you've accomplished for yourself since we first me, and I've never been happier than seeing you succeed."  
  
Although rejected, maybe disappointed, Connor smiled. He let out a shaky breath, wiping the smallest of tears from his eye with a relieved smile. The weight of the confession was off his chest, and his future was glowing bright. "Yeah. I couldn't have done it without you, Lieutenant."   
  
"Probably most certainly not," a voice chimed out. Connor's heart stopped momentarily as he turned his head in terror. There, standing before him, was his mother. She was draped in her finest linens, clearly out of place in the setting. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and Connor's mind fell into an immediate static as he gazed upon the look of disappointment on her face. "As if it was bad enough you, my son, are venturing into an absolutely fruitless career, but you are also a homosexual." She let out a long breath through her nose and shook her head. "Falling for a man who's old enough to be your father no less. I've no words."  
  
"Jesus, I'd say you have plenty. Weren't you leaving?" Hank barked, rising to his feet and putting himself between Connor and Amanda.  
  
Connor was dumbstruck. "M-Mom...? How did you-"  
  
"Mr. Anderson contacted me," she began pointedly, glaring at Hank with a disgusted fire. "He had mentioned you wanting me to see your grand performance tonight. I was hoping for at least a grand hall, not a dive. I feel like I've seen enough of a display for one lifetime." With that, Amanda turned on her heel to leave.  
  
Connor wasn't having it. He frantically pushed past Hank and grabbed her arm, "Mother! Wait, please," he nearly choked. She stopped, but would not look at Connor. "Please just..., I'm not gay. I'm just-"  
  
"Confused," Hank cleared his throat. "He's confused. He's had a rough last few months and he's mistaken compassion for intimacy."   
  
Connor looked down. It was painful. "He's right. I just got attached. Hank has been helping me."  
  
"Of course he has been," Amanda sighed and looked down at Connor helplessly wrapped around her arm like a child. "But between him and this Jericho nonsense, I've no reason to stay here and watch you ruin your life more than you already have."  
  
"No, mother. I won't join Jericho, I-" Connor choked. "I'm not like them. I'm not."  
  
Hank was absolutely taken back by the display. Amanda had Connor wrapped around her little finger. Within seconds, Connor was reduced to a groveling mess, rejecting all of his newfound happiness in an instance. It made his whole body feel hot. "Listen here, Amanda," Hank grabbed Connor's shoulder and gingerly pulled him from Amanda's arm limply. "Connor has been working hard for this. He has found something that he wants to wake up to every day. He busted his ass building this for himself, and it's actually going in a direction that can turn his life around. That's more than the lot of us can say."   
  
"Mr. Anderson," Amanda said with a breath, "how I raise my boys has nothing to do with your and your chivalry."  
  
"Maybe not, but as a parent to another parent, I'd drop dead before I took a shit on my kid's hopes and dreams."  
  
Amanda smiled. "Well, that says a lot for someone who doesn't have their's anymore."  
  
Connor broke the conflict there. He pushed himself against Hank, barring himself between the strong brute and rage and Amanda's less sturdy frame. Had Hank had another second, Amanda would have been broken faced on the floor and Hank would have been in cuffs himself.... "Hank, just leave it," Connor begged, sinking his head into Hank's chest. "I'm fine. Everything is fine, just let her leave."  
  
Amanda sighed. "I'll watch for a few minutes, Connor." Connor's shoulders tensed and he glanced over his shoulder at his mother, her expression fierce and trite.  "But if I don't like what I see, I'm leaving. We can discuss better options when you feel like turning things around."  
  
Connor bit his lip and nodded obediently. Hank's stomach was doing cartwheels and he let his shoulders lax their anger. He looked to Connor, patting his head. "Do your best, Connor. You can do this."  
  
Connor could do this.  
  
He could do this.  
  
He could.  
  
This is...  
  
He...  
  
He couldn't do this...  
  
He couldn't.  
  
  


The emotional outcry seeped back into him. It shot through his veins, trembling as he retired to the back stage once more. Lost in his mind, minutes were like seconds as he was introduced on to the stage, greeted by a crowd of cheering fans who had followed his shows. He stood, the spotlight glaring down on him, blinding him so that all there was was noise. White noise. White noise, and white light, and white snow.... For a minute, he felt like he was standing on that bridge again. It was cathartic in a way really. The river dipping below, ready to crush his lungs under the weight of ice-cold water. Did he want this...? Did he want this life?  
Hank had said he had built this up, but for what? For Jericho? Joining Jericho was so exciting not even moments ago, but perhaps his mother was right. She had been right about everything else after all; maybe Jericho wasn't the best choice. If he fucked up, would they kick him out? It's not like he knew them or anything. Maybe he didn't want Jericho after all....  
  
What he wanted was Hank, but Hank rejected him.  
  
His love was a mistake too. It was all a huge mistake. Standing, breathing, staring into the crowd of people waiting idly for him to start playing...  
  
This was all wrong. There was no meaning to this.  
  
That voice inside of him was screaming. "Help me" it was saying, but nobody could understand. The pain was growing rapidly in his chest, like a festering plague. How could he be standing before so many other people, and not a single one of them could see how fast he was dying? Why was it so invisible? And so that voice rolled with what it had. It lifted the guitar, strumming its fingers against it once. Everyone fell into a hush. Markus and the rest of Jericho watched off stage, excitement building to hear Connor's first original piece, whatever it may bring.  
  
Connor breathed.  
  
It wasn't an original piece.  
  
Connor stared into the stage lights, and with a trembling voice, like a child with stage fright at their first play, he sang the words that made Hank's heart drop into his stomach.  
  
The pain was raw and real as Connor sang, tears beginning to roll down his face, "You Are My Sunshine" on Hank's guitars, with perfectly healed fingers, and a weakness of the heart that shook the crowd to silence.  
  
  
Amanda was the only one who moved. "I've seen enough," she whispered, turning on her heel and leaving the bar.  
  
"Woah, hey hey!" Hank hissed, storming out after her and grabbing her arm on the sidewalk, "what the fuck is wrong with you, can't you see he needs help?"  
  
Amanda ripped her arm from him, "And help he shall receive. I'm going to call Nines to bring him home. I should have known that this was a horrible endeavor, and all you've done is encourage it."  
  
"Of course I encouraged it! Because it was fine! You were the mistake in all of this!" Hank grabbed his hair. "I should have known better than to call you. There was no way I could have imagined you'd be as horrible as Connor explained, in fact you're worse!"   
  
Amanda looked horrified. "Excuse me, but if Connor would have just listened, he wouldn't be standing on a stage in front of a hundred people crying!"  
  
"And you're just going to walk away from that?"  
  
"I'm his mother, not his baby blanket. Nines will fetch him and his belongings and then he's coming home. That's final." With that, Amanda turned again, briskly walking across the street.  
  
Hank stuttered some retort, trying to chase after her again. Nobody heard or saw the car speeding down the street. It had even run a red light, driver intoxicated from a Friday night party. Amanda had barely heard it herself when the resounding, blunt pop of Hank's body was dragged over the roof of the car, and left limp and broken in the middle of the road as the car sped away.  
Not fast enough, though. Not so fast that Amanda didn't get the numbers, and popped her cell out to call 9-1-1, the only other sound was the echo of Connor's sad voice inside, finishing his piece with a somber,   
  
" _You'll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away..._." 


	11. Love is Snow, Rain, and Sleet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I've done is sit in my room thinking about throwing my depressed ass off a bridge, so I gave it to this instead. Enjoy. 
> 
> Also if you wanna offset any stress for the remaining chapter or two, here's a link to highlights my friend and I playing Detroit: Become Human. She had never played and didn't know anything about it, and frankly it's a hilarious mess. 
> 
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=uHBjfQByi_E

"Daddy?"  
  
Hank stirred, groggily running a hand over his face as he woke up to his son shaking his arm. He groaned lightly, sitting up and patting his son's head. "What's the matter, Cole? What's wrong?" Cole stood at his bedside, a toy dinosaur making mechanical whirring sounds that clicked and screeched incorrectly. Cole held the toy up to his father, clearly distraught. "Oh, Cole, what did you do to it?" Hank sighed, throwing his legs over the bed and gingerly taking the wet and water logged dinosaur from the boy's small hands.   
  
Cole sniffed, wiping his hands on his shirt. "It was swimming."  
  
"It was swimming?" Hank repeated with a soft chuckle. "Sorry, Cole. I don't think dinosaurs swim." He pushed the off button on the dinosaur's stomach and then held the toy up to Cole, moving its arms comically. "It's arms are too small, see?" Cole giggled, taking the dinosaur back from his father. Hank turned to his clock confused. It was already 4:00pm, and the bedroom was sticky from summer's lull. Cicada's sang in the distance, and Hank rubbed his eyes. "Where's mom?"  
  
Cole played with his dinosaur idly. "Bath."  
  
"She's taking a bath?" Hank smiled, rising to his feet. Why did she decide to do that while he was napping? He was surprised; she was better than that about leaving Cole unattended. "Is that where your dino was swimming?"  
  
Cole shook his head as he followed on Hank's heel. "The hallway has a pool," he declared in a matter-of-fact voice.   
  
Hank paused, his expression now curt and confused. He opened the bedroom door and glanced down the hallway to the bathroom door which was closed. The carpet was soaked through under the door, with a puddle of water forming in a sopping film on the rug's surface. Hank hurriedly moved to the door, shaking the door handle. Locked. He slammed his fist on the door, knocking in his panicked thinking. "Rachel? Rachel, can you open the door?" Obviously there was no response. He knew what was happening; what scene was playing out. He began to try knocking the door down by slamming his shoulder into the door while Cole watched silently in the bedroom doorway. "Rachel!" Hank yelled through the door before finally stepping back, and with one strong kick, knocking the door through.   
  
Hank could hear Cole begin to cry in the background like it were muffled in water as he moved across the bathroom to the bath tub. His face contorted in grief as he dropped to his knee next to the bath tub and dunking his arms in the bloody water to lace under the lithe, limp body of his wife, pulling her up to the surface and to his chest. He screamed as tears filled his eyes, lamenting the horror scene before his eyes as Rachel's dead body remained propped and bloated against his soaked shirt. Anguish roared in his voice as he cried, wiping the wet hair from he face and gripping helplessly at her opened wrist.  
  
Hank's eyes opened slowly and painfully, his head pounding to the rhythmic sound of a heart monitor in the darkened room. He tried looking around, but didn't need to work too hard to realize he was laying in a hospital bed in the middle of the night. To his left was a wide open overlooking the bright lights of Detroit's skyline. On his right, he could see two forms huddled up in individual chairs, obviously sleeping. He squinted, trying to get a better look, and was surprised to see Nine's sleeping in one chair with arms crossed over his chest and legs extended out. He was unsurprised to see Connor in the other chair, curled up sideways into a ball with his head cradled against the chair back and his own chest.  
  
Hank tried sitting up. He was clearly loaded with something heavy because moving his own body felt like moving a boulder. Glancing down, he could see he was sporting some nasty bruises and scrapes on his arms. He moved the blanket from his legs with a grunt, only to see some purpling and stitches on his left leg that seemed to move up the length of his hip under his less than attractive hospital gown. He sighed, pulling the blanket back over.  
  
Nines stirred awake, blinking a couple of times before shaking Connor's leg to wake him up. Connor woke with a snort and looked around like he had no idea where he was for a moment before realization reminded him and he flew to his feet. "Hank!" He exclaimed, rushing over to Hank's side.  
  
Nines followed quietly. "You're finally awake, Lieutenant."   
  
"Why am I in a hospital?" Hank asked hoarsely and holding his head before muttering, "fucking hate'em. I feel like I was hit by a truck."  
  
"A car, actually," Nines chimed in only to be glared at by Connor.  
  
Hank waved his hand. "Of course."  
  
"I'll go get the nurse," Nines suggested, quietly leaving the room.  
  
Hank and Connor sat in silence, with Connor on his knees and chin resting on the edge of the bed. Hank sighed, reaching a tired hand to gently pet Connor's head. The guy really was like having a second dog.... "What time is it?" hank dared.  
  
Connor muttered a sleepy, "About 3:30."  
  
"In the morning? Shit...," Hank groaned. "Well look on the bright side, I got some sleep. Even if it means getting hit by a truck."   
  
"Being knocked unconscious doesn't promote actual sleep benefits, Hank. It's just-"  
  
"Spare me the details," Hank interrupted. Connor shifted his gaze down, crestfallen. He sighed deep and closed his eyes as Hank's hand continued to lace through his hair tenderly. Hank couldn't help but think Connor's hair was too soft for a man, but maybe he was just biased.... He was used to seeing Connor's hair a bit greasy, slicked back or just oiled from lack of washing through the depression he supposedly didn't have. The events of the previous evening were all coming back to him, and he worried about Connor. "Did uh-..., did you sign with Jericho yet?"  
  
"No, not yet," Connor muttered, brown eyes shifting to steal and glance from Hank.   
  
  
"Okay then," Hank gave in. "Where's your mom at?"  
  
"She followed the ambulance with us. She was here for a while, but left about two hours ago."  
  
"Shit, she stayed that long?"  
  
"She's not a bad person, Hank." Connor reached up to remove Hank's hand from his head and moved it to the bed. he gripped it tightly, lacing his fingers with Hank's. Hank didn't fight it. "She just has an agenda. And problems. Just like everyone else."  
  
"She causes half of your problems."  
  
"No," Connor almost barked. "She... enflames them sometimes and I don't think straight. You should be resting, Hank."  
  
Before Hank could retort, a nurse happily entered the room and turned the light on, causing both Hank and Connor to grit their teeth at the sudden intrusion and excitement of their pupils. Nines followed stiffly behind her as she approached Hank's bedside with a clipboard. Hank wouldn't admit he was a little disappointed when Connor moved out of the way to allow her closer access to Hank.  
  
"Good morning, Mr. Anderson. Glad to see you with us," she smiled, looking over her charts. "Are you able to sit up at all?"  
  
Hank nodded with a grunt and slowly moved his body to an upright angle as opposed to that propped bed routine.   
  
"Good work," the nurse praised. "Do you feel irritable at all?"  
  
"I'm always irritable."  
  
Connor chuckled, which made Hank smile.  
  
The nurse smiled. She knew what kind of person she was dealing with now. "You might be feeling a little lethargic right now. That's normal, they put you on some pretty heavy painkillers. Do you feel any serious pain anywhere?"  
  
"Aside from embarrassment? No, it's nothing worth noting," Hank grumbled as he lifted and bended his arms. It was only then he noted the small cast around his left hand.  
  
Nines chimed up. "According to the witness of the accident, Lieutenant Anderson executed a trained roll over the car before being hit bluntly by it. We can assume most of his injuries were with the impact with the ground and not the car itself."   
  
"In other words," the nurse began while checking something off on her clipboard, "I'd say you're a pretty lucky guy to only be walking away with a fractured wrist and just some scrapes and bruises. Maybe I should go through police training myself."  
  
"I don't even remember doing it," Hank mumbled, holding his head.  
  
Connor stood up and touched Hank's hair. "Then we're lucky that response was so engrained in your memory. When I saw you being lifted into that ambulance, I thought I had lost you."  
  
"Yeah?" Hank glanced to Connor. "And how did that feel?" Connor didn't move. He stared down at Hank with those eyes again.... Something lifeless and voided, yet so unexplainably human. Hank averted his gaze. "Sorry, that was uncalled for."   
  
Connor turned himself away. "Hegel once said, 'Only one man ever understood me, and he didn't understand me.'" There was a weight there; everyone in the room felt it, but Hank knew how sharp those words were, and how much they could cut. "I will see you when you're discharged, Hank. I'm happy you're alright. Nines, we should get going."  
  
"Well now hold on a minute!" Hank exclaimed, rubbing his temple. "Nurse Whoever, Nines, could you excuse me and Connor for a moment? Then you can do whatever it is you need to do."  
  
"Oh, um, of course," the nurse sputtered. "Just pull that chord when you're finished and I'll come right back." She quickly made her way out the door past Connor. Nines shrugged Connor a look and then turned to leave as well, closing the curtain behind him as he went.   
  
Connor and Hank were left alone, and Hank didn't waste any time. "Come here."  
  
Connor remained back to and sighed. "Hank...."  
  
"Sit," Hank demanded, a gruff undertone in his voice. Connor rolled his head on his shoulders dramatically and begrudgingly moved to sit on the edge of Hank's bed, but he didn't look at him. Hank pressed on, "Don't think I forgot about our trip."  
  
"You can't possibly be still considering that in your current condition."  
  
"You heard the woman. I'm a little banged up, but with some good behavior and a prescription of painkillers, we can still make our flight."  
  
"Oh my God," Connor dropped his face into his hands. "You are the only man alive who would get hit by a car and still want to try to fly."  
  
Hank laughed. "Well obviously my plan was for the car to hit me hard enough that it would rocket me to Maine, but not all dreams come true." This didn't win him any positive expressions from Connor, so he pushed forward. "I already paid for the tickets. I'd like to actually use them if I get the OK from the doc. Come on, I really want you to come with me. I won't force you, but it would really make me feel better to see your face when you see the ocean again."  
  
Connor was thoughtful. He shoulders slumped forward and he fidgeted with his hair. "It might be hard for me to be there with you alone."   
  
"S'that supposed to mean?"  
  
Connor moved his hands to the back of his neck, looking at the floor between his knees. "Because of... being in love with you and all." He wasn't surprised when Hank didn't answer. It was the truth, after all. Maine was supposed to be this romantic vacation destination. Maybe not so much in the Winter and Spring, but it'd still be difficult to shove his feelings aside for platonic purposes, and that was the honest to god truth. He had already considered moving out of Hank's house after the initial rejection.  
  
"Can you kiss me?"  
  
Connor popped up, startled. "What?"  
  
"What, did I fucking stutter? I asked if you could kiss me."  
  
Connor's face flushed crimson. "Is that a question or a favor?"   
  
Hank laughed. "It's a question. You've said you loved me twice now, but do you really?" Hank laid back in the bed, propping his head against the pillow and staring into Connor's confused gaze. "Demisexual, you said. You don't get excited unless you really feel strongly about the other person. So try kissing me and see how you feel."  
  
"Hank!" Connor sputtered, shooting to his feet. "It's not like-... it's not like kissing someone is the same as having sex!"  
  
"Oh man, listen," Hank cooed waving his fractured hand, "I have been around the block a few times and I am told that I am a fantastic kisser. So I take personal offense. It's just a small kiss."  
  
Connor was skeptical and dumbstruck. Maybe this was the medication in Hank talking, but still... "What would you get out of me kissing you? All it would do for me otherwise is hurt."   
  
Hank raised a brow thoughtfully. "You really want to know that? What I think about all of this, and about you and me?"   
  
Connor swallowed. "No, but it's better than not knowing I suppose."  
  
Hank cleared his throat and shifted a bit in his bed with a sigh. "I think," he began thoughtfully, "that our relationship isn't normal. Not at all. I think it has everything and nothing to do with our age gap, because I've lived and loved and you're still learning. I think a relationship between us would be seen as inappropriate, even if we're both consenting adults, and therefore it may be difficult to be open about it. I'm old enough to father you; in fact, I've been fathering you for almost half a year, but I don't at all feel like your dad and you're most certainly not my son."  
  
Hank went quiet while Connor listened patiently, holding his breath and considering Hank's words before Hank continued. "I think the love you have for me exists on the standard that I helped you out when your were down and out, and enhanced by the high of having a normal home life for the first time in 30-fucking-something years. After meeting your mom, I can almost promise that's the truth. I think you're a fucked up brat who's impulsive and nosy and has absolutely no tact for the feelings of other people."   
  
Connor practically deflated where he stood. He looked down, his eyes beginning to water a bit before he was gingerly hushed by Hank. "Don't start crying, I'm not finished. Despite all of that shit, I still feel like I would rather die tomorrow than spend another day without you near me." Connor looked up, surprise written all over his face, and Hank didn't falter holding Connor's gaze. "I am the older, more experienced one here. I should be encouraging you to tour with Jericho. I should be pushing you out my door soon now that you're standing on your own two feet. I should be telling you about how you're going to find someone better than me to fall in love with, and that it will be for all the right reasons; all the healthy reasons."  
  
Wet tears slipped down Connor's cheeks now against his will. He stared at Hank as Hank unleashed this storm of feeling that Connor could barely rationalize, but Hank continued anyway. "And I don't feel good enough. Not because I'm older, or because I've done more with my life, but because you're so perfectly human. The most human person I've ever met, and so beyond your time. You were right, you're just like some android pre-designed to imitate life and produce results, but I want to see you _experience_ life, Con. I don't want you to learn about how amazing life can be through people who ruin it for you, I want to see you learn how to live for the first time while being treated like who you are."  
  
Hank was out of breath. "Which is someone amazing-- so amazing that they had to try to jump off a bridge in a snowstorm before anyone would notice." Hank finally upturned his gaze, staring Connor down with blood-shot eyes. "I don't know if that's textbook love, but it's some kind of something. It's a clothing line at least."   
  
Connor threw himself into Hank's arms, practically crushing the older man against the bed. He didn't even mind Hank's injuries as he pushed his lips against Hank's, an emotional flood washing over them both like an icy wave mixed with rain and sleet. He breathed rapidly through his mouth when he separated from Hank long enough to re-position his lips and tongue, tasting everything he could taste. Hank kindly used his good hand to thumb tears from Connor's cheeks as the younger man all but panted and whimpered against his touch. He pulled away, face flushed and eyes glistening before whispering breathlessly, "I definitely felt something."   
  
It wasn't until 10am that Hank was discharged. They had received proper permission from the doctor that he was fit to fly, which was a relief because they only had a couple hours to catch their flight. Luckily, they had the mind to pack the day before while they were idling their time waiting for Connor's very important and stressful show. Sumo was painstakingly left with Gavin, an avid cat lover and a subtle dog hater, but Gavin's frame of mind was that he would seem charming looking after the dog living under the same roof of his secret lover's twin brother.... Gavin even bought Sumo some toys and treats to impress Nines when he came over later that evening.  
  
"Why is Sumo here?" Nines asked as he hung his coat up on the coat rack.  
  
"I'm babysitting him for the week," Gavin grinned. "Y'know, while Anderson and Connor are doing their whole beach thing."  
  
Nines was silent. "Beach thing? What beach thing?"  
  
Gavin was confused. "They didn't tell you? Man, that's harsh. Hank bought them both tickets to Maine for the week. Some ocean-side hotel."  
  
Nines froze. "Which hotel, Gavin?"  
  
"Fuck if I know? What's wrong?"  
  
Nines abruptly sat down in a chair, clenching his hands into the soft arms. "Have they already left?"  
  
Gavin rushed to Nines' side. "Yeah at like noon? What's going on, talk to me."  
  
Nines swallowed before bringing his hands to his face. "We've got to find them, Gavin. Unless I have my brother delivered to me in a body bag, we have to go find them."   



	12. Take Me Back To The Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor makes it to the ocean. It's peaceful. It's just what he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be mindful while reading that this story does mention and address suicide and suicide based scenarios.

About five months....

That's how long it had been. Only about five months since they had met. It felt like a lot longer.  
Sometime after Christmas, which Hank didn't make a point of celebrating, but before the new year. May had been rumbling along, bringing with it some warmer air, but not much for melted snow in New England. Dirty piles of hardened snowbanks sat along the roadside and in parking lots. As they drove, Connor even saw some ambitious flowers trying to bud through the cold earth. It looked like it could be a big and beautiful flower one day, but he knew that because it tried to bloom so early that it was going to die before its time.

But there would always be more flowers.

Connor turned his head to steal a glance at Hank as the older man drove, large bags under his eyes. Connor couldn't convince Hank to postpone this trip. Deep down, he didn't want it postponed anyway. He was excited to see the ocean again. He was excited to be there with Hank, even if Hank didn't love him or the ocean in the same way. Connor wouldn't deny that Hank's drug induced confession in the hospital was beautiful, but Hank was right; their relationship wasn't normal. It wasn't like they were two love birds who sought out romantic partnership, it was born out of necessity. Connor had needed Hank, and Hank had needed Connor, and that was it, all other feelings be damned.

Connor wanted to talk more about it. There was something in him that hoped that they were on the same page, but how could they be? Connor's feelings for the Lieutenant were excitable and agitated all at the same time. He already knew Hank wasn't one for talking about emotions, and that the breakdown in the hospital was a one time thing built up under particular circumstances. So why did he love Hank? What was it?

As Connor stared, he noted the crinkle on Hank's nose. He stared at the unkempt beard, and the flowing trails of silver hair that fell from his head in greasy locks (they both needed a shower). Hank's eyes, so blue and pristine and clear despite his age. A little crack on his lip from the cold, and cracks on his hardened hands from his accident. It wasn't any of that which Connor had fallen in love with. It was Hank's sincere goodness, his kindness, and his passion for those he cared about. It was Hank's longing to understand what couldn't be understood, and the patience alongside the human bite of frustration. Hank was just so.. "Beautiful...," Connor whispered.

"Did'ja say something?" Hank chimed.

"No, nothing," Connor answered with a smile as he turned his attention back to the roadside and rested his forehead on the window. Hank didn't love him, not in the same way. Hank loved him as a philosopher loves death; always searching for the meaning behind that beautiful sadness, but finding a forlorn romance with death in its place. How gorgeous their romance was, even if it would be fleeting by nature. "I'm really glad I met you, Hank."

Hank smiled. "Where did that come from?"

"Just thinking, like usual."

A chuckle. "I'm really happy I met you too, Connor."

Shortly after, the tree line gave way to the roll of cottages and boat houses lining a pebbled street. On the horizon between picket fences and yards built on lobster trap art, the ocean slept sparkling against the setting sun.

"There it is!" Hank laughed, nudging Connor's arm playfully. "We're almost there. Excited?"

Connor wept mutedly and smiled. "Beyond understanding."

  
Nines wasn't excited, and he jittered as he held his phone to his ear somewhere in Manchester, New Hampshire. According to the bank teller, Connor had last used Nines' credit card at a convenience store off the highway, and that's where they remained. Gavin sat in the truck with Sumo panting in the back seat, watching Nines with both irritation and concern and waited for Nines to return to the passenger seat.

"Any luck?" Gavin asked flatly.

"We're moving a bit faster than them it seems, but there's not much to do until we can pin point a location in Maine."

"How long has Connor been doing this thing with your credit card?" Gavin sneered. He was trying to be sympathetic, he truly was, but the whole situation was insane. "If he knows that you're trackin' the card, and he's going to do what you think he's going to do, why's he using the credit card?" Detective skills were still Gavin's strong suit. "You'd think if he wanted to kill himself, he wouldn't be leaving a trail for you to follow."

"That's precisely what he's doing, actually."

Gavin went quiet, turning his head to Nines. "He _wants_ us to find him and Anderson?" Nines leaned his head back and sighed deeply, staring off into the distance of the front window. Gavin shifted, "Hey hey, I'm sorry. I'm just trying to understand what's going on," he apologized softly as he reached over and gripped Nines' shoulder.  
  
Nines let out a shaky breath. "He wants me to come to Maine and find him. I just don't think he wants me to find him alive. I suppose that would be helpful as opposed to leaving his corpse there with Lieutenant Anderson alone."  
  
"Jesus Christ," Gavin leaned back in his seat, rubbing his eyes. "That's so fucking selfish, what the actual fuck...."  
  
"This has been going on for a lot longer than you think," Nines whispered. Gavin stared at him evenly, giving Nines the OK to continue. "Connor and I were left in foster care after our birth father allegedly drugged us on Red Ice. He had claimed it was an accident, but the resulting turmoil was the death of our mother and the imprisonment of our father."  
  
Gavin swore under his breath. "I didn't realize your childhood was so fucked."  
  
"It wasn't," Nines corrected. "We were actually adopted out of foster very quickly. Our mother was wonderful. She gave us a beautiful home and a fantastic education and loved us unconditionally. Our lives were very normal. Privileged you could even say." Nines rolled his head to stare out the window. "Connor was always a bit difficult though. He was defiant and seemed to have a lot of restricted emotions regarding our original parents. Amanda was a strict mother, and Connor was often denied her affection as punishment, which even I will admit was cruel given our developmental history with parental figures."  
  
Nines shifted in his seat and looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them. "Once we were on a family vacation. We were beach side, and for a single day our mother wasn't strict or domineering. She allowed Connor and I to do whatever pleased us, even if it meant making a mess or eating too much ice cream," Nines smiled. "It was an amazing day. Connor and I decided to go playing in the waves because the water was so warm, but something caught Connor's ankle and he slipped under the water."  
  
Gavin swallowed. "Don't tell me you lost him?"  
  
"We did," Nines lamented. "He had actually hit his head on a rock under the water and fell unconscious. By the time we found him, he needed to be revived from near drowning. I'll never forget how scared I was, or how loudly our mother cried. I thought I had truly lost my brother." Nines clenched his fists tight. "He survived thankfully, but nothing was the same after that. When Connor opened his eyes, he was different, and our mother was different too. She was more strict on Connor and much more protective. Connor couldn't get away with the same mistakes I could make, and he became very dark."  
  
"Like just... depression, or...?"  
  
"I want to say yes, but that word doesn't do it justice," Nines whispered. "Before we left, I found Connor on a dock looking at the ocean. I asked him to come with me so we could go home, but he wouldn't move or answer. He just stared. When I finally got his attention, all he said to me was 'why didn't you find me?'" I didn't know what that meant. It wasn't like we were playing hide-and-seek so it didn't make sense. But I think what happened was-... I think Connor died that day."  
  
Gavin raised a brow. "Sorry, you lost me...."  
  
"Not literally, just figuratively," Nines explained. "He was almost dead, and I think rather than feeling fear and panic, he felt _relief_ ," Nines turned his gaze to Gavin, eyes searching. Gavin was unnerved by that gaze, Nines always being the collected and controlled one. Nines tried to keep his tone even. "I don't think Connor knows he's alive. He at least doesn't feel like he is, and maybe there's just some part of him that wants to go back to the ocean and figure that out for himself, but I think there's another part of him that wants to 'correct' the fate he escaped."  
  
Nines moved to open his door. He grabbed Sumo's leach. "Needless to say we moved far away from the ocean after that. Perhaps you're right, and I'm simply being paranoid, but-"  
  
"No, I get it," Gavin sighed. "You don't have to defend anything. You care about him." Gavin smiled. "That's one of the reasons I like you so much," he muttered sheepishly. "I'm gonna look for a hotel around here while you take the mutt out, alright?"  
  
Nines nodded, shutting the door and leashing Sumo. Gavin watched as they walked away before lighting a cigarette and hissing an anxious "fuck...."   
  
There was a distinctive rumble of stones being turned by the cold waves. It send shivers down Connor's spine as he listened closely, eyes cast deeply over the never ending desert of salt. His attention was caught on the horizon; a mess of grey clouds touching the grey of the ocean that blended into a patchwork of nothing. The waves crashed and scattered against the stony cliffs. A lighthouse spun on a nearby cliff, and the light danced and twirled along the beach and rocks.   
  
"Connor!" Hank shouted, pulling some bags from the trunk of the car. Connor turned, a small smile on his face as he stood in the face of the ocean's sublimity. It made Hank's heart warm. "Come help me with these bags, will ya?"  
  
"Coming," Connor chuckled, approaching Hank's car and lugging his fair share. His eyes grazed over the building with curiosity. "I suppose I thought we would be staying in a motel or a bed & breakfast."   
  
"What, you thought I was that put out?" Hank laughed. "Well you're right, we're just borrowing the place for the weekend. Miller owes me one," he grumbled, nodding his head to the house. It was a large, white and blue New England home that sat every so quietly on the cliffside. "Yeah ,homes like this aren't typically owned year 'round. Summer homes for vacation mostly."  
  
Connor nodded with understanding as he began to drag their luggage to the front door. He waited patiently as Hank flustered with various old keys and finally managed to open the door with a creak. They both coughed a bit as an onset of dust wafted into the air, but Connor was quickly finding himself dragging the bags in and setting them with exploratory curiosity.  
  
The home was lavish, with old, nautical furniture crafted from driftwood and birch wood finishes. The walls were adorned with family pictures laced with tumbled sea glass. Shells and old fishing rope decorated the railings leading up to the second floor balcony. Various buoys with various dates and locations stamped on their sides were string from the high beams, and Connor felt something in him stir as he ran his hand over the dusty top of an accent table.  
  
Hank sighed. "Needs a bit of cleaning, but it's still pretty good huh?"  
  
"It's amazing," Connor said almost breathlessly.   
  
Hank's face flushed a bit as he shut the door and fumbled for a light switch. When he clicked it on, the whole room fell into a warm glow that pushed a breath of awe from Connor's lips. He turned to Hank once, searching for the OK to explore. When Hank nodded, Connor slowly worked his way upstairs, taking in every touch, every detail, every emotion the old house had trapped under its skin. As he climbed the second floor, he noted that many of windows faced out into the ocean, and Connor somehow felt the house breathe. He trailed his finger tips over the fine wood finished thinking, 'you as well? I love it too.'  
  
He found his way to the bathroom. A large tub with electric candles set in various places and wall fixtures. The tub seemed lined with pebbles, and Connor tested the ornate sink's water. It came out cold, but surprisingly didn't take long to run hot. The pipes were apparently in good shape, despite the immaculate dust painted. Perhaps Officer Miller had someone check the plumbing, but didn't bother too much with the housecleaning.   
  
Connor rolled up his sleeves and sat down on the tub edge. He turned the water on and began filling the tub with hot water, steam wafting up into the cold room. He even managed to find some scented epson salts and gingerly poured them, stirring the water with his free hand.  
  
"I see you didn't waste any time warming up," Hank laughed from the doorway.   
  
Connor simply smiled. He stood slowly, a little bit of sway as he made his way over to Hank. He stood right up to the slightly taller man, staring at him with fond eyes. Hank let out a breath, his chest rising in a controlled way as Connor unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. "Could you help warm me up a bit more, Hank...?" he whispered, finishing unbuttoning his shirt and letting is slip to the cold floor.   
  
Hank shut the door behind them.   
  
Night rumbled into the home, as well as the cold. Hank held Connor's body close to him under the thick quilt, gently drifting his fingers over Connor's back as their legs intertwined. Connor snored. He snored loud, so Hank wasn't sleeping quite yet. Rather he simply watched Connor doze through his afterglow, enjoying seeing the other man rest so soundly. However, he was starting to get hot.... While Connor seemed to run cold, Hank ran hot, and he was beginning to feel like a furnace under the quilt as fun as cuddling was.  
  
Hank groaned and managed to slip out from Connor's clinging, exposing himself to some much needed cool air. He decided he would take a piss while he was at it,  but when he returned to the bedroom, Connor's eyes were wide open. "I woke you up, I'm sorry," Hank said getting back into the bed.  
  
"I wasn't sleeping that deep to begin with."  
  
"You could have fooled me," Hank laughed. He decided not to mention the snoring yet.   
  
"Hank, you promised me something. I was wondering if you could make good on it."  
  
Hank raised a curious brow. "Which one?"  
  
Connor sighed. "That you would try to...," he bit his lip and shifted his gaze back into the pillow, "...understand."  
  
Hank shrugged his shoulders. "Okay. How do I start?" Connor didn't answer at first, but Hank corrected himself. "That's right, I remember. I shouldn't have to ask. Okay...," Hank let out a long breath and thought. He decided maybe pants would somehow make the whole thinking hard thing a bit easier. He tugged them on and looked around the room. Low and behold, the guitar.... He knew Connor had brought it, but he was amused to see Connor prioritized it over bringing up their clothes.  
  
Hank flicked on a small lamp and picked up the guitar. He sat down again, strumming his fingers along the old strings. "You speak this language, right?"  
  
Connor smiled and sat up, holding his knees and resting his chin thoughtfully over his wrists.  
  
Hank laughed again, completely charmed. "I'm rusty, I only ever really mastered bass so cut me some slack."  
  
But to understand Connor? He made that promise when they first met; right before he hauled him from off the bridge. He thought deeply.... What should he perform?  
  
  
[▲]  **[Sing about how Connor sees the world](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5qkfAc_6dv0)**  
_**Ending** :_ Accepting and Understanding Depersonalization  
  
[⬤]  **[Sing about how Hank relates to Connor's feelings.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NDHY1D0tKRA)**  
_**Ending:**_ Hank's Collective  
  
[ ▇ ] **[Sing validation and reassurance to Connor about Connor's 'sickness.'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dS5GfL9F7L4)**  
_**Ending:**_ So Long Gone but Never Alone  
  
**[ X ][Sing about how Connor inspires Hank to move forward](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=93A30cbUGEc)**  
 _ **Ending:** _ Life Goes On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you have to choose your ending. Huzzah!
> 
> Keep in mind what you've learned so far. Small details and clues, if you've noticed any of them. What Hank will sing will determine the ending you (should) read. Of course you can read all 4 endings, but it's my hope you'll at least read the one you picked first.
> 
> Also, if you'd like, comment what song you picked. I'd love to take a statistic before I post the final chapter.
> 
> P.S: May make a separate oneshot for that naughty bit.


	13. [▲] Accepting and Understanding Depersonalization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING:  
> Updated tags....  
> Suicide warning. Please be mindful while reading.
> 
> "True Ending" 1/4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided that I... I would break the 4 endings into parts. Why?  
> Because it was a LITTLE BIT emotionally taxing trying to do all of these at one time.  
> Last chapter will have the "good" ending. 
> 
> Consider this ending the "True" ending. Option Triangle.

As Connor listened to Hank's voice, he was moved with catharsis. Truly he had never felt so... relieved. Perhaps even accepted, but more purely than all else, he felt understood. The melancholy that gripped the room was thick, but warm and comforting, and Connor felt those all too common tears drip from his eyes; no expression beyond focused, but a small gasp of intense love. He felt so loved, and he loved Hank so deeply. In fact, it was in that moment that he felt so sure of his feelings.... As Hank sang Hank's face was gripped with so much pain, yet such furious sublime.   
  
As he finished, Hank took a few deep breaths through his nose. His hands trembled as he set the guitar down beside him on the floor and cleared the air from his throat. They sat in mutual silence for a moment, having a conversation through their shared intimacy, and nothing else. "Well," Hank finally broke the silence, "that's... all I got."  
  
Connor nodded with understanding.  
  
"It's sad," Hank whispered. Connor's eyes softened as he wiped his eyes, Hank continuing as he braced his hands against his knees. "It's so sad. I've experienced grief but..., the sadness that you feel all the time is down right crushing, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry you feel like that. I'm so sorry."   
  
Connor rose from the bed. He crossed around it and stood before Hank, naked and vulnerable and sore in body and swollen in soul. He gently cupped Hank's face in his hands, lifting his eyes up. "Thank you," he whispered soothingly, and gently kissed Hank's forehead. "Thank you for giving me this."   
  
**[▲][Sing about how Connor sees the world](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5qkfAc_6dv0)**  
**_Ending:_  Accepting and Understanding Depersonalization**  
  
  
They fell asleep in each other's arms. Connor lulled Hank to sleep with soft caresses. At one point in the night, they awoke to more intimate touches and moved into another spell of sex that drove them back into slumber. The night proceeded in that way. Sleeping, kissing, making-love, rinse and repeat.... Connor felt so alive. Perhaps that's what made it so painful, and what made him cry so much in Hank's presence. He cried through the sex, the pleasurable thrusts, the passionate kisses and soft hushes. He cried while he fell asleep, and cried when he awoke. Soft, gentle tears.... Being alive felt so wonderful and right, but it was so short lived. Hank comforted him through all of it. Hank loved him through all of the build up, and loved him through all of the release until there were no more tears to cry.   
  
Connor awoke in the late morning to the smell of bacon. He rested his face in his hands, feeling the soreness and exhaustion like a loving sickness. He pulled himself from bed and pulled up a sweater and some sweat pants before dragging his cold ass downstairs. The waft of coffee and sizzling bacon warmed his cold bones and he stared into the kitchen, looking at Hank's back as he stood over the stove. The light of the morning silhouetted him in a halo of warmth.   
  
Connor loved him so much.   
  
He gave a low and impressed whistle, which caused Hank to swing around. "Ah, you're finally up," he chuckled. "Figured you'd sleep all day, what with how well used that bed got last night."   
  
"That's some pride if I've ever heard it," Connor smiled before taking a very slow and careful seat at the table, causing Hank to chuckle more. Connor grimaced. "Bacon and coffee isn't going to fix my back."  
  
"Nah, but I'm hoping it'll help so you're not too afraid to have another night like that again," he smiled warmly as he placed a plate and mug in front of Connor and grabbed a plate for himself.  
  
"I don't think that will happen." Connor smiled, resting his chin in his hand and immediately going for that first, holy sip of coffee.   
  
"Good?"   
  
"It's perfect," Connor sighed happily, closing his eyes as he drank.  
  
Hank smiled. "So I've got some plans for us today."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Ocean sight seeing, obviously. Step one."  
  
Connor winced. "You were hit by a car, and I was plowed by a tractor. You really want to walk around?"  
  
Hank bursted into a loud fit of laughter, choking down a few pieces of bacon. "I was prescribed a ton of pain killers. _I'm_ fine." Hank pointed his fork at Connor. "Now you, on the other hand, I'm not so sure. I could cut you half of one of my pills, it won't hurt you none."   
  
"I'd appreciate that before hiking, yes," Connor said with a relieved sigh. "That's pretty brave of a suggestion from a Lieutenant."   
  
"Yeah well. I wouldn't offer if I thought it would be dangerous. They gave me enough to put down a horse, it's just for today."  
  
Connor smiled. "We were dumb."  
  
"We were-...," Hank paused, "...we were in love."  
  
Connor stared at Hank, as Hank stared in return. Connor took another bite of his bacon.   
  
Rocky cliff sides, pine trees, moss and soft sand under one's toes. Maine's beaches were truly gorgeous. They were no tropical, white sanded, blue watered paradise, but they were special. Dark, grippingly cold, and mysterious. The dark water crashed and sang against the rocks, and danced and delighted against the sandy shores. It washed with it seaweed, rumbling and rolled stones, and some of the smallest shells Connor had ever seen. The seagulls piped and trilled as they hunted for muscles to smash against the rocks. Small crabs and other tiny creatures wiggled in the tide pools, waiting for high tide to drag them back out to sea.   
  
Connor was wonderstruck by the serenity of it all. There were almost no people on the beach. The weather was grey, a common forecast for coastal New England's early Spring. Connor and Hank walked barefoot along the beach, bundled in last minute purchased wind breakers and scarves. Their hands were laced together, which made Connor a bit nervous before Hank clarified that mid and southern Maine was a hub for a larger homosexual population. It was a bit odd not feeling so out of place in the moment. He felt so comfortable, and the world felt so familiar and warm.   
  
He was starting to panic a bit that he was going to lose it again. He tried to shake the thought from his mind, but just the fact that he had to immediately exhausted him and his steps became slower.   
  
Without purchase, Hank squeezed Connor's hand harder and whispered, "It's okay, I understand." He gave it another firm squeeze, giving Connor the agency to pick up his pace once more before Hank muttered another soft "It's okay, Connor."   
  
"Hank," Connor mumbled through his scarf. "If I were to ever kill myself, would you hate me for it...?"  
  
Hank was quiet. The hum of the waves on the beach and the wind lifting the gulls high into the gloomy sky muted his voice a bit as he responded with a gentle, "No."   
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because I can understand why you'd do it. I don't want you to. I'll do what I can to stop you. I won't give up on you, but I wouldn't blame you for doing it."   
  
Connor squeezed Hank's hand.   
  
"I don't want you to do it."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I don't even know how to love you right, yet."  
  
"I know, Hank."   
  
But Hank wasn't going to ask Connor not to do it. He wasn't going to beg him, or bribe him, or even scold him. All he could do for Connor now was understand, and understand he did. Just like he promised. He swallowed his grief. Part of him understood that this was borrowed time.... There was something in Connor that was already dead. He remembered Connor throwing his dead wife's coat at him that night months ago, yelling at Hank that he wasn't a ghost; that he wasn't an excuse for regrets.  
  
But Connor _was_ a ghost. He was a lingering soul, drifting the mortal world searching for something that he'd never have. They were just both trying too hard to deny that truth: Connor was already dead. A sadness had already killed him a long time ago. Sometimes, there was just no coming back from that, and Hank knew that better than anybody else.  
  
But he didn't want to give up. He just wanted to help guide Connor through it, for as long as they could. Together. Because if anybody knew how to cheat sadness and death, it was Hank.  
  
Even though Hank had his own methods of doing so. "How about a bottle of wine with dinner?"  
  
"Wine...?" Connor asked in slight disbelief.  
  
"Classier than beer and whisky I think."  
  
Connor snorted. "Wine sounds great."  
  
They managed to get back to the house. Hank turned the oven on and started cutting potatoes while Connor retreated to the restroom. He used the toilet, washed his face, and brushed his teeth. He stared in the mirror for a few minutes, braced against the sink's edge, not at all recognizing the face that was staring back. The Devil seemed to cradle Connor in His teeth, and all his reflection showed was the bitterness inside for what he was thinking of doing; Hank's son would be so disappointed, and this only caused Connor to feel like he was floating away. Up up and up he went....   
  
Connor glanced at Hank's painkillers sitting on the towel cupboard. Twice. Twice he thought, "just one more day," like he had been saying every day. But one more day was just going to be one more day of faux love, panicked and short-lived sensations of life, and feelings of emptiness. One more day was lack of purpose, lack of empathy, and connection to others. One more day was gone and lost and so small....  
Connor quietly took the bottle and shoved it into his coat pocket.   
  
Upon entering the kitchen, Hank stopped him long enough to supply a "Hey, use my card. It's in my wallet on the coffee table. Store is right down the hill. Just take a right at that little shack. Lights are probably on, you can't miss it."  
  
"Got it," Connor smiled as he tied his boots up and adjusted his scarf.  
  
"Love you, Con" Hank called as Connor was leaving.  
  
Connor paused, but didn't return the words before leaving.  
  
Hank was right. Finding the convenience store wasn't an issue. If the glaring lights weren't obvious behind the thicket of trees, it wasn't much more than a 10 minute walk. He strolled inside, looking around at the empty store laced with more souvenir key chains and magnets of lobsters than actual useful items it seemed. Connor managed to find the wine through all of the nonsense, settling on a Bar Harbor Cellar mix with a high alcohol content before wandering to the register.  
  
He placed the wine of the counter absent-mindedly, and was mildly startled when the woman behind the counter interrupted his train of thought with a sweet-tempered, "You're lost."  
  
Connor turned to the woman, suddenly stricken by her appearance. Smooth skin and darkened eyes that had seen some damage. He couldn't help but wonder how poor her eye sight was as she scanned the item, or as she scanned him."You're looking for something," she cooed, much like a mother does a newborn. Connor glanced at her name tag; Lucy. He wasn't sure what to make of it as he reached into his pocket before hearing her tenderly remind, "You're looking for yourself."  
  
Connor froze. He stared into Lucy's eyes as his hands grazed the two cards in his pocket. One... belonging to Hank. The other... his brother's credit card.   
  
_Ba-thump._ His heart clawed at his ribs.  
  
_Ba-thump_. He melted under those eyes as she patiently waited for her payment.  
  
And he made a choice, gingerly pulling out Nines' credit card and giving it to Lucy to scan.  
  
The whole world seemed to fall into a silence then. The separation of reality crumbled at his feet as she returned his card, nodding at him with sadness on her face as he took his purchase and left the store.   
  
He didn't return to the house. Rather, he walked slowly to the narrow beach that sat right below the cliff in which the house rested. He removed his shoes and sank his feet into the sand as he found a comfortable spot near the waves, and he sat down. He stared at the bottle in his hand, swishing it left and right in thought before turning his attention the horizon. Grey touching grey. A painting of nothingness that felt so much familiar than anything else in the whole world...  


[He felt so small against the waves....](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2cBzMSPYKas)  
  
With a sudden urgency, Connor smashed the neck of the bottle against a rock to his left, wine sputtering over his hand. The alcohol was sweet and strong against his nose as he crushed a few more parts to soften the broken edges. He pulled the bottle of painkillers from his pocket, fumbling with the cap, trying to move quickly before he lost his nerve. Swift and silent. He spilled a shaky handful into his fist and forced them into his mouth before hastily washing them down with the sweet blueberry poison. He coughed and choked a few times, but forced more alcohol back into his body... as much as he could stomach before the burn hit. Only then did he toss the bottle into the rocks, hearing it tumble and crumble in the tide pool nearby. He shoved the pill bottle back into his coat pocket.  
  
It was only about thirty minutes later than Hank wandered down the beach to look for Connor. He strolled up to him, smiling down at Connor as Connor learned against a rock in the sand and stared evenly out over the waves. Hank moved down with a groan, sitting next to Connor like he always did when he found him like this before. "What are we thinking about tonight?"  
  
Connor barely responded. He simply blinked, taking a heavy breath. Hank noticed the bags under Connor's eyes. "You look a little pale, Con. Are you sick?" Hank looked around, noting no plastic bagged store purchase in sight. "Didn't make it to the store then?"  
  
Connor didn't respond.  
  
"That's fine, we had an emotional day. I'll go get it in a bit and we can eat, ok?"  
  
Connor nodded slightly. "Hank," he whispered, "sing."  
  
Hank raised an eyebrow. "You wanna do this here? It's cold."  
  
"Please."  
  
Hank shrugged, moving to shift Connor over so that he could lean the smaller man against his shoulder and hold his hand. "Let's see.... What am I going to sing now?"  
  
"Sleep...."  
  
Hank raised a brow. "Too cold to sleep out here. I'm not dragging your ass all the way back up that cliff."  
  
Connor didn't answer, which made Hank feel a little guilty.   
  
"Ok, ok...," he caved. "Let's see, something that would help you sleep." It was a gut instinct really. Albeit a bit morbid... it felt... right? Appropriate somehow? Hank chuckled a bit, reminding himself that he'd sing this to Cole; the only thing he'd ever sing for his kid, but it worked every time. That's how all the drama around it started, right? Perhaps it was time he sang it to Connor, instead of waiting in horror for Connor to sing it to him. Connor was alive; healthier than he'd ever been, and that made Hank's heart flutter in his chest.  
  
With such tenderness, Hank rolled Connor's head against his shoulder, brushing his fingers through Connor's bangs as he began softly, "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine...," Connor felt a little clammy. The mist of the ocean must have chilled him. "When you're not happy, my skies are grey. You'll never know dear, how much I love you. So please don't take my sunshine away."   
  
Hank let out a long breath. His eyes scanned the waves rolling in and out, their gentle hum like a lullaby from darkened deep. He continued, his voice a low rumble of warmth, "The other night dear, when I was sleeping... I dreamt I held you in my arms. When I awoke, I was mistaken...," Hank swallowed, thoughts of Cole swimming over his vision, "...so I hung my head and sobbed."   
  
Hank wrapped a warm arm around Connor, gently rocking him left and right in a swaying motion and gingerly kissing his head. "You are my sunshine, Connor, my only sunshine (left)... when you're not happy, my skies are grey. You'll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don't-..." He pressed his palm against Connor's forehead and stopped. "Jesus, you're really cold, we need to get back inside. Warm you up."  
  
Connor didn't respond.  
  
"Connor?"  
  
None.  
  
Hank shook Connor's shoulder a bit, staring at Connor's eyes as they watched the waves contentedly. "Connor, you with me?"  
  
Hank waved his hand in front of Connor's half lidded gaze before realizing his eyes weren't following it. He quickly laid Connor down flat, moving the man's head as it fell limply against his lap. Pupils large and black, face pale. "Connor!" He screamed, resounding footsteps rushing up the nearby stony path and silencing on the sand. Two male voices echoing Connor's name; his brother's laced with an uncanny resemblance to his brother's as it carried over the gap between them like a howling ghost.  
  
"Connor," Hank breathed, leaning forward and pressing his lips against the man's forehead, tears wetting his already dampened hair. "Connor, stay with me, come on...."  
  
But he was pale and weightless and gone, like a dream among the sunken angels...  
  
Or so how his song had gone.


	14. [⬤] Hank's Collective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ending 2: Hank's Collective. [⬤] . Sing about how Hank relates to Connor's feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I've been gone forever.... I started writing this fic to help deal with my own depression. So if I'm NOT updating, it's probably because I'm feeling pretty good. However I'm hitting a rough patch, so HERE YA GO.  
> P.S Please forgive me. In general. I never meant to let this fic die, I just couldn't bring myself to work on it while I was feeling reasonably happy. 
> 
> On another note, I cosplayed Hank recently. There were... there were too many Connors for me to handle oh my god....

As Connor listened to Hank's voice, he was moved with catharsis. Truly he had never felt so... relieved. Perhaps even accepted, but more purely than all else, he felt understood. The melancholy that gripped the room was thick, but warm and comforting, and Connor felt those all too common tears drip from his eyes; no expression beyond focused, but a small gasp of intense love. He felt so loved, and he loved Hank so deeply. In fact, it was in that moment that he felt so sure of his feelings.... As Hank sang Hank's face was gripped with so much pain, yet such furious sublime.   
  
As he finished, Hank took a few deep breaths through his nose. His hands trembled as he set the guitar down beside him on the floor and cleared the air from his throat. They sat in mutual silence for a moment, having a conversation through their shared intimacy, and nothing else. "Well," Hank finally broke the silence, "that's... all I got."  
  
Connor nodded with understanding.  
  
"It's lonely," Hank whispered. Connor's eyes softened as he wiped his eyes, Hank continuing as he braced his hands against his knees. "It's so lonely. I've experienced isolation but..., the loneliness that you feel all the time is down right crushing, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry you feel like that. I'm so sorry."   
  
Connor rose from the bed. He crossed around it and stood before Hank, naked and vulnerable and sore in body and swollen in soul. He gently cupped Hank's face in his hands, lifting his eyes up. "Thank you," he whispered soothingly, and gently kissed Hank's forehead. "Thank you for giving me this."   
  
  
Connor was a poison; A shot too many of whiskey and a cigar left burning on the arm of an old, worn chair. Despite all that Connor was, Hank truly was the most beautiful kind of suicide. As Connor laid next to him in the old bed, staring wordlessly into the icy blue of Hank's tired eyes, he felt their hearts and minds talking. There were no words to be heard, not that they could be spoken anyway through the worn down soul they seemed to share. They were conspiring, plotting, deciding. The rhythm of their frantic lives were planted in the dirt, and it was only up to them if that seed was planted six feet down or shallow enough to spur new growth.   
  
Connor gently moved his pale fingers, passively tip toeing them to Hank's thin cast. Broken wrist, but no broken fingers; he had plucked the guitar through the ache, much like Connor had. "Hank," he finally whispered, spurring Hank's attention like a moth to a flame. Connor's smile tipped in the corners of his cheeks. He whispered, "Maybe there's a God above, but all I've ever learned from love was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you. And it's not a cry you hear at night...,"  
  
Hank breathed, "It's not somebody who's seen the light...,"  
  
Hank intertwined their fingers as they breathed together, foreheads touching,   
"It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah."   
["It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah." ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LRP8d7hhpoQ)  
  
As dawn broke on the horizon, it brought with it a fog that danced over the grey expanse of sea and touched the horizon. Seagulls sang in harmony with the crashing waves. Connor stood on the cliff side, the fresh sea air blowing back on him and whipping his curls to and fro.   
Hank climbed the hill behind, but stopped and admired the view of an angel standing on the edge of the rocky cliffs with wings outstretched against the breadth of morning light. The wings folded, becoming merely the arms of a tired man once more, and Connor turned his head back to look at Hank. He smiled.   
  
Hank gripped their two suitcases tight in each hand and continued up the cliff path to stand by Connor. He set the suitcases, giving Connor a soft, chaste kiss to the temple before whispering softly, "are you ready to go?"  
  
"Yes," Connor breathed. The tension in his body immediately dissipated. "I'm going to miss this place."  
  
"It's a nice spot, huh?" Hank smiled.   
  
"Not the house, Hank," Connor raised a sardonic brow. "You know what I mean."   
  
Hank chuckled. "I know." With that, Hank took one of the suitcases and tossed it over the edge of the cliff with a grunt. He gave Connor the other suitcase, and Connor didn't hesitate to toss his over the cliff side as well.  
  
The gulls awoke in a choir.  
  
Connor took in the sounds, the melodies, the song of the sea. He abruptly broke the silence. “Plato once said ‘Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything.’ Hank," Connor muttered, "what brought us here?"  
  
Hank let out a deep sigh. "Everything. Everything good and everything bad, and everything in between."  
  
"Was it me?"  
  
"Never," Hank assured. "This was sort of always in me, too. I just denied it because I thought it was the right thing to do."   
  
"It's possible we won't be together after this," Connor's eyes flicked to Hank thoughtfully. "Will you miss me?"  
  
"I'll miss you. I'll miss you like I miss my wife, my son, my once good knees," Hank laughed. It managed to pull a laugh from Connor as well.  
  
Connor breathed. "It doesn't have to be ugly, does it?"  
  
"Now see that," Hank began mindfully, "is not something I considered until I met you, Connor." Hank turned his head to Connor, hands in his pockets. "Things end. Things come and they go, and none of us have permanent residence. I started to think 'to each their own' on the matter. The only thing that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth now is thinking about people who died who didn't want to."  
  
Connor frowned. "I wish I could give my life to someone who wants it."  
  
"Don't we all, though?" Hank scratched his beard. "I think we all say that. At the end of the day, it's ours to do with what we will." Hank let the words sink into the fabric of their decision. He added passively, “You know, a real wise philosopher once said to me ‘I wanted to go for reasons that weren’t sadness.’ And I thought that it was a selfish thought, but deep down I agreed with him. Maybe it’s not for everyone, but even so....”  
  
They stood in silence for a few minutes. Their souls were chatting again, prepping for their next adventure together. Hank took Connor's hand, staring out over the ocean waves. They both took a couple of steps closer to the edge, grip tightening one one another, knuckles white. "Anything left?" Hank asked.  
  
"I'm the only baggage left," Connor chuckled, rubbing his thumb against Hank's knuckle. He let out a nervous and shaky and breath, turning to wrap himself around Hank's frame. Fingers gripped into Hank's shirt and he kissed him once more. Hank obliged, returning the kiss to Connor's cheek, his chin, his nose and forehead.   
  
Three heart beats was all it took. Only three. They learned their bodies towards the edge as they held one another, and allowed gravity to take them wordlessly down. The waves took them in its cradle and Death chartered their sleep. In all Hank's dreams he drowned. He felt relief knowing he wouldn't have to wake up this time.   
  



End file.
